Momotaz Rahman - search results
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I don’t really remember where it all started. Maybe it was when we were arguing that one cold November night. My memory plays games; at times I can feel the winds, hear the hollowness of the winter that resembles but other times, it's as if someone put snow over my memory like a blanket. That night you got so upset you slammed your own fist down on our dining table.
Every day things happen that throw off our plans. Weddings get rained on, events get canceled and places get snowed in. We accept and expect Mother Nature of being unpredictable, but that doesn’t mean we are always prepared. We are not always kind to her nor each other. At times I question our humanity and where it has gone, especially with everything going on in the world. But this weekend, my hope in humanity has been restored.
Dear My Main Man, I write to you because out of every helping hand I have received in this world, yours is the one with the most impact. You receive the least amount of credit and praise for the things you do. You’ve always stood back and let me shine or run in the rain knowing I always get caught up in a storm. You’re always stepping in when I call for you, knowing you can’t be more than a few feet away ready to comfort me in your arms as you have been doing for years. It’s time that light radiates on who you are and the love that you have shown me.
The same kids that thought my traditional clothing was weird, that my food smelled funny and who assumed my culture was barbaric, are now walking around wearing bindis, matha pattis (headpieces) and saris, raving about how their life has changed after throwing some turmeric in their latte.
In all reality almost everything about me was different, to my brown hair/eyes, my olive complexion, and my ability to speak a language my peers have never even heard of.