His home never left him. It came back to him when it was time for him to return.
In his delirium, he murmured about the huge expanse of the “ haor ” (swamps) of Sylhet. He tried to clutch a fistful of imaginary Murta grass as the bouts of sinking feeling took over. Sitting next to him, I felt the slap of the wet breeze on my face. The man was my father.
