Clouds: Childish Consolation

by Ilhamul Azam 
read the suite from the beginning

Childish Consolation

I often talk to my mother. When I ask her to give me her phone, I see a dread in her face, she tries to delete something. She knows that we are aware of what she does when she gets out of the house at night or on holidays lying that she has some work to finish. Even then I often talk to her.

One day Shilu came to me saying that she saw mother today on someone’s bike holding on tight to that unknown person.

“ It wasn’t father, Dada*[1]”, she said with a crying face.

Does Shilu understand this evilness? Shilu is getting big.

“No No, it couldn’t be mother. She was with me when you presumed to see her. It must have been someone like mother,” giving her a false consolation I wish I could get from someone.

Mother isn’t ashamed. Why am I?

That day Shilu came to me weeping, “ Dada! They say bad things about mother.”

“ Who?”, I asked, caressing her.

“ That tall and fair uncle,” hugging me and weeping harder.

“ People say bad things about good people. Bad people envy the goodness that stays within good people,” I said to her, moistening my eyes as well but I try to hide it. I don’t have someone to have consolation from, I am unfortunate. 

I don’t want to talk to mother regarding this, but if I end up saying it to her, she denies the fact.

“ I swear! I don’t have anything like this in my heart, I would never do this consciously,” says mother.

I become angry with her. I don’t want to be angry with her. I don’t want her to be accountable to me.  


[1] Conventional regard for big brother in Bangladesh.







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