Mohammed_hridoy
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This man is my father.
He was a peddler—he used to go from village to village selling pots and pans. People knew him as “Rahim the peddler,” and I knew him as the most powerful man in the world.
Father had no land, no cows, no shop. But he had indomitable hard work, boundless love, and a dream—for me.
He would leave home in the morning—with his hands hanging down, his sandals torn, and a smile on his face. Sometimes in the sun, sometimes in the rain, sometimes in the market, sometimes in the village. Sometimes a pot would be sold, sometimes the day would pass without earning a single taka. Still, he would return with a smile on his face.
Sometimes I would say, “Father, you are suffering so much. Don’t reduce my expenses.”
He would pat his head and say, “You will become a man, father, your education will not stop. Even if it is not today, one day the sound of your pen will be louder than the sound of my voice.”
Today I teach in a college in the city. With my ID card around my waist, a bag around my neck, I look at my face in the mirror before entering the class. But that old chant still rings in my ears—
“I need a pot of bones...”
That is my father’s voice, that is my roots.
That is the first song of my life...❤️🥰
He was a peddler—he used to go from village to village selling pots and pans. People knew him as “Rahim the peddler,” and I knew him as the most powerful man in the world.
Father had no land, no cows, no shop. But he had indomitable hard work, boundless love, and a dream—for me.
He would leave home in the morning—with his hands hanging down, his sandals torn, and a smile on his face. Sometimes in the sun, sometimes in the rain, sometimes in the market, sometimes in the village. Sometimes a pot would be sold, sometimes the day would pass without earning a single taka. Still, he would return with a smile on his face.
Sometimes I would say, “Father, you are suffering so much. Don’t reduce my expenses.”
He would pat his head and say, “You will become a man, father, your education will not stop. Even if it is not today, one day the sound of your pen will be louder than the sound of my voice.”
Today I teach in a college in the city. With my ID card around my waist, a bag around my neck, I look at my face in the mirror before entering the class. But that old chant still rings in my ears—
“I need a pot of bones...”
That is my father’s voice, that is my roots.
That is the first song of my life...❤️🥰
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