An Immigrant’s Notes- 1
Rubayat was woken up by the familiar, deafening knocks on her bedroom door- it was part of her house help Tara’s weekend ritual to try and break down her door in the process of waking her up.
But even Tara’s absolute lack of a sense of privacy couldn’t take away from the glee Rubayat woke up feeling. It was going to be an absolutely PERFECT day where everything and everyone including the weather was going to cooperate.
With an ear to ear smile, Rubayat got out of bed and opened the curtains. And just as her heart had promised, the weather was indeed an indication of Dhaka feeling love for it’s people- sunny, breezy with the slightest sign of humidity and maybe some hints of rain. Perfect.
As she was washing up and brushing her teeth, she took her time to appreciate the beauty of the mundane: the feel of the toothbrush, the coolness of the water on her always-warm skin, the smile that greeted her in the mirror, the yellow of the indoor cactus by the window. So this is what ‘yellow’ feels like, she thought with giggles.
Even her beloved, torn-in-multiple-places maxi was saying ‘I love you’ to her in all possible languages.
She giggled some more.
Her parents met her at the dining table, along with her little sister Reba, waiting to start breakfast.
“Abba, I don’t know why you insist on waiting, it’s the weekend I should be able to sleep in some more.”
“Because otherwise, I’ll have to go days before we can all sit together at the table for breakfast.” He smiled. That warm, ‘Abba’ smile that radiated the sun’s rays.
She countered with giggles.
Rubayat looked around at the table and inhaled the sight and the smells: porota, dim poach and alu bhaji with her sister making their signature porota wrap, tongue out in concentration; Amma insisting on hand-feeding her; the smell of freshly brewing tea on the stove.
She could also smell the rest of the day. It smelt like her favourite Fridays, spent at their Uttara home, with those she loved as much as life itself. Smelt like the fragrance of turmeric and Chandan on Amma’s freshly showered skin, the fish fry for the feast which best described their Friday lunches, the smell of Abba’s skin as they’d all cuddle together in bed for a post-lunch nap, and the smell of fresh rain soil. The kind you only get to smell in Dhaka.
It sounded like cars honking at each other, and street peddlers reminding the neighborhood Ammas of the vegetables they forgot last minute; tunes of the old Bangla classics in the voice of Runa Laila and Shabnam that Abba will be playing later through the day already made its way into her ears.
She closed her eyes in anticipation and gratitude.
And just as she was about to take her first bite of the signature porota roll, Rubayat heard Amma’s frustration: “but how many times have I told you not to eat or drink anything in your dreams, Rubayat! Pet kharap korbe pore ke dekhbe tomake?”
As her brain tried to make sense of the confusion, her people and Dhaka home became a blur.
A jolt. And then, Tara’s deafening knocks.
Only, it wasn’t Tara.
It was the construction work taking place in the neighbourhood.
And it wasn’t her Dhaka bedroom.
It was the bedroom she was learning to call ‘mine’ in Melbourne.
As her body tried to make sense of what was going on, Rubayat’s brain tried to provide some assistance-
This is Melbourne, Rubayat. You live here now. This is your new home.
That smell you’re getting is your roommate brewing coffee and making toast for breakfast.
That sound you’re hearing is Kiss FM playing the latest hits of Melbourne.
That alarm you are hearing is your phone telling you to wake the fuck up and call Robert about the meeting in Oakleigh at 3.
Abba, Amma and Reba are pretty far away. Dhaka home has to wait for a bit
Rubayat looked around her. Sure enough, her brain wasn’t lying, but her body was taking some time to re-adjust.
But wasn’t I just wrapping Amma up in my arms and smelling her skin? How could that not be happening right now?! Maybe if I close my eyes and open them again…
And so she shut her eyes tight, said ‘Allah please, Allah please’, and reopened them.
No Abba, Amma or Reba anywhere. Just her in her PJs, still feeling the warmth of her torn maxi.
With a sigh, she made her way out of bed with a smile.
Oh, well.
Another day. Another dream about home. And a heart full of gratitude.
She went in to say good morning to her lovely Greek roommate, and the sight did make her heart smile.
Family away from family. Home away from home.
As she grabbed a piece of toast and made her way to get dressed, she heard her roommate call out.
“Wait, what’s those lines you were humming last night, again?”
Rubayat felt her heart fill up with sunshine and face light up with the biggest smile.
“I’ll be home for Christmas...if only in my dreams.”
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