I have been to the airport many times before, but never to fly. I used to tutor a kid who lived near the airport—went there every day by train. Living near the station had its advantages. Each time I saw a plane fly across the sky, I stared at it, feeling sad and happy at the same time. Sad because I had to leave home, and happy because leaving home would perhaps mean a better life.
How many days were left? Two? Three? Five? I stood there and counted, and lost count, and counted again.
America seemed like a distant land, a happier land—but tell me, does happiness exist without family?
At times, my scholarship didn’t seem worth it. At times, this big dirty city full of idiots and miscreants seemed like heaven. At times poverty and lawlessness felt like home. At times…
well, I wasn’t mad. No matter how many thoughts ran through my mind. No matter how many doubts I had. I always knew: I had to get on that plane, one day.
I went to the airport early. Some would call it too early, but these are the things that excitement does to you. Excitement for a better future, excitement for a better environment, excitement over better education, excited to escape hell, perhaps? Why did the overcrowded capital of a third-world country suddenly feel like heaven? It hadn’t for the last twenty-odd years.
I first came to this city when I was little. My father got a promotion and his salary increased, but for some reason, the size of my room decreased compared to the one that I had in my little town. A small flat in the unhealthiest corner of the city. I could see hills from my windows: hills that smelt bad. Hills of garbage.
I shake my head and open my folder of documents in front of the immigration officer. The overweight person in uniform sits with open disgust on his face, as though someone were forcing him to do this job.
I try to concentrate on finding my passport instead of staring at him, but I can’t. Even this officer looks someone I might want to adore later on; my own people, my own blood.
“What’s taking so long?”
“I can’t find my passport.”
Seriously I can’t. I swear I could remember putting it in my folder, but I can’t find it anywhere, here, now.
With even more disgust, the officer looks at me and says, “Well, rot here then. Get out of the line.”
I speed through everything—my luggage, my pile of books, even my shaving kit. I look at the officer and now he seems ugly. Everyone around me suddenly looks ugly. I feel a sudden need to leave, to escape. I deserve a better place than here. I tip out my clothes everywhere, and continue looking for my passport like a man possessed.
Cover image by TomasNY GFDL, via Wikimedia Commons
About the author
Shouvojit Sarker was born in a small town in the northern area of Bangladesh. After finishing his high school there, he came to Dhaka to attend college. Now he studies at a university in Australia. He loves to write, but not more than he loves to read. He is especially interested in history, and has a strong voice against oppression.