Part 25: Goodbye and ধন্যবাদ

June 2, 2023

1579 N Rd V

Ulysses, Kansas, USA

I turned 23 on May 9th.

Ever since Christmas, Lisa had been talking about taking all of our workers out to a worker appreciation supper. I have been making it known that I wanted it done before I leave. So, they formed a brilliant plan: take the workers out for supper that night and then bring them back to our house for cake and ice cream, plus some of the village friends. It was a marvelous plan.

And then it all fell apart. Our night guard, Sunil Kaka, was invited to attend a Kali Puja at his brother’s house that night. “Go without me,” he had insisted. But that didn’t seem right. We were literally taking them out for a worker appreciation supper! If one of them couldn’t make it, we would have to reschedule.

So, instead we got up on that Tuesday morning and ate my favorite breakfast (thanks Whitney). We had school and I made a cake to take around to the neighbors. I first took some to the factory next door; then, to my favorite lady’s house. Her oldest son informed me that he ate four of the eight pieces at supper.

Then, my day took a depressing turn. Some beautiful soul had informed me that I was fat and probably wanted to go home to sit under the fan. He didn’t mean to be rude. He thought he was being funny. Normally, I would turn around and correct him, but for some reason I didn’t have it in me. I went to a quiet spot to cry alone. On my birthday. My dog saw me coming and ran to meet me. He didn’t care that I was fat. Then, as I sat on the edge of the rice field, two children came from a nearby house to keep me company. I tried to look like I wasn’t crying; but instead, wiping sweat from my face. They talked to me all about my dogs and their cats and their new house and I began to feel better.

In the evening, we got all dressed up and the family took me to the chicken and naan dokan. All the way there and all the way home, they made sure to loudly inform everyone on the road that it was my birthday.

We got home, and all I wanted was alu makkah from the street food guy in our village. Brandi, Whitney, and I walked into the bazaar. Nobody was out, for everyone had gone to the Kali Puja. But there were a few people gathered around the street food guy’s stand. When he saw me, his face lit up and he said “Happy Birthday to you, Kalli didi!”

I was so shocked. “How did you know?” He just smiled. Turns out, Whit and Brandi had told our van driver to go ahead and tell everyone in the bazaar what day it was. Sneaky little girls.

So was my 23rd birthday. I never ate cake on my birthday. Instead, I ate chicken and naan and doi.

The next day, May 10th, we attended a Hindu wedding. It was fascinating. How do I even put it into words? We didn’t actually know the bride or groom. Instead, we knew the bride’s little brother, Joy. (In Bangladesh, Joy is a boy’s name. It means “victory.”) Joy is 17 years old and has been coming to Sunday school since he was three. He knows all the songs and stories by heart and is a huge help when it comes to wrangling a bunch of perfectly naughty children. He had told us that his big sister was getting married, and his dad said he could invite us.

And so we made plans to go. Hindu weddings always take place at night, so, just as evening was falling, I packed my hot pink saree with the golden border and walked to my favorite lady’s house so she could help me put it on. As I arrived, I realized I had made a mistake. The Hindus do a puja around their house when evening falls. My favorite lady’s husband sat me down on the porch to wait while my kakima walked around with her smoking incense sticks, oils, and hibiscus flowers, blessing the corners of her house and scaring the dark spirits away. I didn’t bat an eye. Such has become normal to me.

Once she was done, she called the neighbor ladies to come watch and help when they could. Nothing like having three ladies surrounding you and adjusting your hot pink saree with the golden border.

And once the sun had completely set, we traipsed on to Chakrakhali. Of course, in true Bengali fashion, nothing had begun. Joy met us at the road and whisked us off to the house where his sister was getting ready. She was putting on a gold, green, and purple bridal saree. Her hair was ironed and puffed and parted down the middle. In the middle of her part, a golden chain ran down to her forehead, where a golden medallion hung just above her eyebrows. Her face looked like she had fallen in the flour bin and her eyes were lined with heavy black. Her hands had been painted thick with henna, and her wrists jingled with many bracelets. We feebly told her she looked beautiful, feeling cheaper and cheaper by the minute. Soon, Joy whisked us off to sit in the temple, where the wedding was to take place.

Inside the temple, right in the very middle, was a type of “room”- four pillars with curtains draped over. All four sides were open, and there was just enough room in the middle for a few people. On all four corners, they had placed big banana leaves, making the room look like it had been made from banana trees. (If you need any help picturing the scene, just search images of “Bengali Hindu wedding.” The things you find will look very similar.) The floor had been painted with all kinds of different ceremonial markings.

Here, we waited for the groom to come. I think it was the hottest night of the year. Whitney and I finally went outside to wait in the breeze. We bought a coke and stood in the shadows where no one could come and take selfies with us.

I don’t remember when Joy took us to eat, but at some point he excitedly (Joy does everything at 100mph) took us across the road and to his house to eat. On the way, I asked him if this marriage was an arranged marriage or a love marriage.

“It’s a love marriage,” he told me.

“Oh, so your sister is happy?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “But she is the only one. Nobody else in the house is happy.”

“Why, is he not a good guy?”

Joy seemed disgusted. “No. Nobody else likes him except her. This marriage was totally her own decision, and the rest of us don’t support it.”

When we crossed the road, we discovered, much to our dismay, they had made special food just for us and wanted to serve us at their very house. We sat down on the ground and washed our hands. The lady dutifully handed out our plates and started to dish out the rice. I noticed that my rice looked very alive. In fact, it was crawling with ants. Little brown ants.

I was too embarrassed to say anything about it, because here they were already serving us special food. I had already accepted my fate that I was just simply going to have to eat ants tonight. However, I didn’t know what the others would do. I knew Lisa would, under no circumstances, be eating ants. Luckily, the cook saw them before we had to cross any difficult bridges.

Joy ran to get us new rice at 100 mph. From there, the food was uneventful. They rushed us to eat, for the wedding was about to start, they said.

Finally, the groom arrived. He was wearing a red panjabi, golden lungi, and a cool hat that all Hindu grooms wear. Lisa thought he was wearing the hat as a joke and took to calling it his “cupcake hat.” That describes it perfectly.

The bride’s family had a table set up at the entrance of the temple. In Bangladeshi custom, no matter the religion, the groom isn’t allowed to pass until he has drunk the juice on the table, eaten the food, and paid some money. Usually, the drink is horribly salted or mixed with ground hot chillies. Little pranksters, they are! The bride's family typically steals one of his shoes and he has to “buy” it back. I don’t get it, but it sure looks fun. The crowd gathered around the table to watch the circus- the bride’s people on one side and the groom’s on the other.

Once the hubbub died down and the proper waiting time had been met, the bride was carried in. She sat on a tiny wooden board and was carried by her staggering brothers. (I’m quite sure Grant is glad he doesn’t have to do that for my wedding!) Still, the groom is not allowed to see her. He stood in the little banana leaf room with a towel over his head. The bride proceeded to take a flower in her hands and circle him seven times, each time dropping a flower petal at his feet. On the seventh time, she rubbed oil on his feet and bowed to him.

A “holy man”, as they are called in Hinduism, read scripture from a book. I can’t remember when exactly they had their first look at each other, but by now, they were sitting on their respective little wooden boards facing each other. Once the reading was complete, the priest took something I couldn’t make out and placed it into the bride’s henna-stained hand. Then, he took the groom’s hand and placed it on hers. He took a red string and tied it around their clasped hands, binding them together as husband and wife.

The bride and groom each hung a floral wreath around the other’s neck. They had a hard time getting it right on the first try but ended up getting it after the third attempt. After this, there was plenty of warbling from the Hindu aunties and lighting incense sticks and ceremonial nonsense. They signed their marriage papers and that was that.

The bride was led away to another curtain and bamboo room in the corner of the temple. Here, her aunties put the red dot on her forehead and the crimson stripe down the center of her head: the symbol that she is now a Hindu wife.

It was now 11:30 pm, and we headed home. The music was loud, the night was hot, and we were all exhausted. And another National Geographic experience was in the books.

May 11th was the day we finally took our workers out for Biryani. It was also the day Lisa and the kids decided we were having my birthday party. As we waited for everyone to arrive at our house so we could leave, Whitney and Brandi were scheming and planning and blowing up balloons to hang on our gate. They snagged Tulshi into their evil influence and had him write a sign that said “Happy Birthday, Miss Kalli'' in Bangla. (শুভ জন্মদিন মি: কেলি) Once everyone had arrived, we were away.

There were nineteen people in our van. Our guard, Tulshi, his sister-in-law Ety, and her daughter, Puja; our night guard, Sunil, his daughter-in-law Sumitra, her son, Raj, and her brother, Prosonjit; our cleaning lady, Dipti, her husband, Uttam, her sons, Subho and Turjo, and her nephew; as well as all seven of us. Lisa and the kids sat in the trunk, while four grown men sat up in the front. The rest of us filled in the cracks.

We were led to a long table that Trevor had called ahead to reserve. Tulshi had been to the restaurant plenty of times with his friends, so he knew what was good. Personally, I think it was some of the best biryani I've eaten yet.

And then we all packed back in and headed home. Two big chocolate cakes were waiting to be eaten, and, little did I know, candles were waiting to be blown out. However, everyone said they were too full from supper! Lisa and the girls still made sure I got the “Happy Birthday” song, blew out my candles, and cake smashed in my face.

A few people did eat cake out of duty. We sent some cake home with Ety and told her to feed it to Bishnu, Tulshi’s big brother and our old guard. Then, I went and stood by the road and told everyone to come in and eat cake. We got most of the cake gone! All it takes is one driver to go past and tell the rest that there is cake at “Brother’s” house.

That day had also been the last day of school. As I walked into my classroom for the last time, it was hard to believe I had two school terms behind me. I had always said I would never be a teacher.

Our program was scheduled for May 14th. Since Whitney was graduating from 8th grade, Trevor’s wanted to do something a little more special for the program. He convinced Kelly’s from Gopalgonj and Jarad’s from Dhaka to meet us at Chitra Resort in Narial, two hours north of Khulna.

We drove up on Sunday, May 14th. Each family planned some games for a makeshift “play day.” Of course, the games always end in a water fight. This was very entertaining for the group of devout-looking muslim boys that had come to the resort for the day. They were probably appalled.

We had the program that night in an enclosed gazebo. Each student told a little story about how different children in remote parts of the world go to school. They all did fantastic. They sang their songs so well that I almost forgot there were only five students!

Then it was time for Whitney to graduate. Brandi set one chair up in front of the crowd. Whit read her class history off her phone, and then all the adults took turns giving her bits of advice. Lisa and I helped her sing her song, and then it was time to hand Whitney her diploma. I’d never handed anyone their diploma before, and I didn’t really know what to do. But, in the end, everything went off without a hitch, and a very happy and relieved Whitney was done with her school forever.

May 19th, Friday, was my last church day: the last time I stood in front of my smiling Sunday school children with their bright eyes and wide smiles; the last time I sat in church, sweating buckets and hoping people wouldn't notice.

I put on my favorite saree and walked to Sunday school for the last time. I always loved Sunday school. Week after week, I had stood in front of them and led the singing. I know all their favorite songs. I know the parts where they sing extra loud; I know the parts where they stumble. I know which kids like to do the actions, and which ones are too shy. And now, I had one more time.

Before I started the first song, I told them that it was my last time with them. “Next Friday,” I told them, “I am going to get on an airplane and go to my mom and dad. Since this is my last day with you all, I have brought you a surprise.”

I picked all my favorite songs to sing with them. I’ll never forget those little songs. I hope to teach them to my own children some day. After the story was done and they were starting on their pictures, I handed out their surprises; a whole pack of gum for each student.

Then, it was on to the next Sunday School in Chakrakhali. Just like every Friday before, Joy picked number 11, and Taritro picked number 24. Borno picked the new boat song I taught them, and everyone picked number 39. Pahar shore jabe… The mountains will move…

The afternoon came and we went to church. I forgot to get sentimental in church, because everything was so loud. The neighbors were pumping water, and Kobir had to yell at the top of his lungs so everyone could hear the song number. Finally, Hridoy got up and marched over to the neighbor’s. When he came back, the noise had lessened. He had told them that we were trying to have church, and if they could please turn it down that would be appreciated.

Still, it was loud. The water pump was pumping water on one side of the church, and on the other, a busy road was full of people marching and trucks honking. Inside the church, the mighty stand fan swung her green head back and forth, providing temporary reprieve from the heat.

When Shanto asked for prayer requests, I did what I never wanted to have to do. I popped right up and told everyone that it was my last Friday here. I told them that the last two years had been amazing, and that I felt like it was God’s blessing that I was able to come to Bangladesh.

When I sat down, I felt the tears coming. “No, no, no!” I told myself. I focused on Shanto telling the small group of people about his most recent motorcycle wreck. This seemed to close the flood gates.

Shathi made my favorite, soya beans, for supper that night. We stayed until a few hours past dark, and then made the 10-minute van ride home. Another day had come to an end. It felt like, in these last weeks, time was my enemy. Each day, as the sun made her journey across the sky, inevitably drawing nearer to the western horizon, the clock ticked on. Each day that ended was one more day past. One more day until the last.

On Brock's 8th birthday, we had Shanto’s over for Pizza. Pinky, Hridoy’s fiance, also came. Not only did Pinky come, she also brought her cousin and her brother to our house. Let me tell you about this cousin:

I don’t remember her name, but she was quite something. She has traveled all over the world representing Bangladesh in beauty pageants. She walked through our gate and into our house like she owned the place. She carried herself with such dignity and poise that it made me suddenly aware of every hair that was out of place on my head. I stood up straight and automatically switched from village Bangla to proper Bangla.

Her brother was with her. One look at him and I was suddenly sorry for everything I had done wrong. He was terrifying. Bengalis are usually short, but this man was taller than more-than-6-foot-tall Trevor. Come to find out, he plays soccer for the University of Dhaka.

And suddenly these two celebrities were at our house eating homemade pizza. And a cake that I had decorated with cars from Brock’s toybox. (I sanitized them first, don't panic.) But, come to find out, they were really nice. The model lady took a shine to Kylie immediately.

The soccer player bent down and scratched Toby’s ears.

After lunch, we went on a walk: Hridoy, Pinky, the model, the athlete, Antor, Whitney, Kylie, and I. The athlete asked what kind of treats the village dogs like to eat, because we had some following us and he wanted to feed them, and the model actually drank coke when we stopped at the dokan. Maybe they were normal people after all.

The next day, a monkey came to visit the village, so we all went to gawk at it. I discovered some little boys playing in the trees near the monkey’s tree. I didn’t know all of them, but I knew the biggest one. He seemed to be the leader of the pack, and he asked me if I could reach the higher fruits in the trees. I did my best while a skinny boy climbed the tree to pick the even higher ones.

My favorite lady was collecting branches for her fire. I went to help her carry them back to her house, and she insisted that I sit down for a mango. I gave in, knowing this was one of the last times I would be able to eat mangos at her table. These days were full of lasts.

Then, at 7:00, we all walked to Tulshi’s house for supper. That morning he had said to me: “Sister, I went to the market this morning before work and I brought chicken, catfish, soya bean, potatoes, and eggs to feed you tonight.” All of my favorite foods for my farewell meal. I tried to scold him for going through such trouble. But he said it was only for tonight and then it was finished.

When we arrived at Tulshi’s house, his pet calf came and nudged right up against me. His pigeons cooed in their house, and his sister-in-law giggled and got us chairs to sit on. Sunil, our night guard, and Fahim, our closest neighbor, were also there.

We got sat down and served rice. I ate slowly so I could savor every last morsel of food. I was still eating when Papa Travis called Bishnu, and when I got up, I could hardly walk.

Tulshi and Fahim walked us to the road. We stepped around the muddy spots amid talk of my leaving and of Tulshi’s wedding that is to happen next year. And as we walked the rest of the way home, I kept thinking, one more day has happened. One more day closer to the last.

The next day, I went back to Tulshi’s house to sit with his sister-in-law, Ety. On the way, my path was suddenly blocked by that monkey from yesterday. He looked at me, jumped off his fence, and started for me. Now, this isn’t some cute little monkey. He was probably three feet tall, with a three foot tail attached to him. I decided it was best to duck into a nearby dokan.

The dokan dhar (shopkeeper) fed the monkey mangos and muffin cakes. When the monkey perched on the fence across from the dokan, they told me it would be ok for me to go on.

When I arrived at their house, I told Ety that a monkey had been in my way and that is why I was late. She had promised me fresh cow’s milk if I would come to visit her this morning. I was hoping the milk would be gone by the time I got around the monkey. I didn’t really want to drink it, but I did want to hang out with Ety, and that’s the real reason I had come.

Ety is one of the cutest people I’ve ever met. Though she already has a 10-year-old daughter, she is only a few years older than me. And sure enough, she had given the milk to someone else. I tried not to look too happy when she told me. Albeit, she still sat with me while I ate the biscuits she put in front of me.

On the way home from their house, I encountered Tulshi in the cha dokan. He walked the rest of the way home with me. Suddenly, he turned to me and said, “Oh, I have bad news. Very bad news. Your little kitty is dead.”

He told me that some little boys had seen the monkey take it, bite it on the head, and slam it against the road. I looked at him in disbelief. How can that be true? But, sure enough, there was blood on the road, and there was my little kitten. I had rescued him from the side of the road only months ago. Since then, I had fed him and watched him grow up. And now he was dead. I couldn't help but cry when I saw his bloody little body. Only an hour ago, when I was on the way to Ety’s, I had held him and told him that he couldn’t come with me- he needed to stay at home where it was safe.

Brandi gathered some flowers while Tulshi dug a grave under the tal tree. We dumped the cat in the hole and covered him up with dirt. People would walk by and ask what we were doing. Nobody felt like answering. Brandi put the flowers on top of the grave and we all walked inside feeling defeated.

(We found out later that the cat had actually been run over by a motorcycle. I guess the school boys just assumed it was the monkey and the story got around.)

I went to sleep. Even though it was still morning, I didn’t feel like being awake anymore. I am aware that I am 23 years old. Sometimes I wonder when I’m going to grow up, too. But then, I think that maybe I’ll never change when it comes to my animals.

Brandi came and woke me up when it was time to go to Nitay’s house for lunch. That’s right! Today was the day we had been invited to his house. Only now, nobody felt up to going. But, we put on our brave faces and trotted over to Nitay’s house.

Nitay drives us to church every Friday. His wife is a fantastic cook. His teenage son, Aakash, has been one of my little friends from day 1. Great people, they are, and like I’ve stated before, great people make the best food.

After food, Aakash showed us around the house. I went searching for Brock and Kylie, only to discover that they had gone next door to Tulshi’s house. The three of them were watching cartoons. And so, another day found myself sitting on the floor of Tulshi’s house, only this time I was watching cartoons with two children and two grown-ups.

That night, I was sitting outside feeling sorry for myself because my cat had died, when Pim walked by. Pim is a delight. His real name is Sudipto, which means “good light”. When he was little, he had a hard time pronouncing his own name and took to calling himself “Pim.” The name stuck, and everyone now knows him as “Pim.” He is everyone’s best friend and has claimed me as his big sister, giving me the title “Didi.”

“Didi, you look sad. You need to come to my house and eat pitha. Tulshi is invited too.” Well, now, pitha is another one of my favorite foods, so I ran inside and asked Trevor’s for permission to go. They said that would not be a problem.

So, away I walked to stuff my face again. I was made to sit in a chair and Pim brought me juice from a tal tree. It’s not so bad in small doses, but when I am made to drink a whole glass of warm, impossibly sweet juice, I find myself gagging down the last third. Thankfully, Pim was kind enough to finish the glass for me.

Of course, his aunt tried to feed me rice. After all, everyone else was eating bhat at this time of the night! I insisted that I would only eat one pitha. So, she gave me three. I negotiated and ate two.

Pim walked me home after my pitha were finished and I had declared my thanks. And another day had ended. One more day closer to the last. Every night that came came with dread. Every time I went to my balcony to listen to the nighttime songs of the little critters, I would think to myself, it’s almost over.

It wasn’t a happy thought. I wasn’t ready to leave. How can I leave? I am surrounded by love; by strangers who have become family. This place is as much my home as any other I have lived. Then, the words uttered in the dal field that hot afternoon came back to me. “They have to come, and they have to go.”

And that was the night I decided to believe the words I had said in church; that it was God’s blessing that He had sent me to Bangladesh. Sure, it was almost over, and each night that the stars came out was one night closer to the last. “But aren’t you so happy you came?” a little voice whispered through the swaying palms. Nothing can last forever, not on Earth, anyway. Instead of pining after something that I knew wouldn’t last, I decided to just be grateful I had come, and enjoy the last days.

The next evening, as I sat on the floor at Shanto’s house eating biryani, I suddenly remembered something. “Ah,” I said. “The first meal I ate at this house was biryani, and the last meal I am eating at this house is also biryani.”

That first meal seemed like a lifetime ago. I still remember sitting next to Seth as he taught me how to eat rice with my hands. I still remember looking into the faces of Shanto’s family and wondering how I would ever get close to them.

Things have changed since that day. Everything has changed. They aren’t strangers anymore. They don’t speak a strange language anymore or eat strange foods. I’ve celebrated every one of their birthdays with them. I’ve laughed with them, cried with them, annoyed them, been frustrated with them, and spent many, many hours sitting in this concrete house. Somehow, these people on the other side of the world have managed to steal my heart and become family.

They aren’t the only ones. I think of Bishnu, Ety, Puja and Tulshi. There’s Sunil Kaka and his naughty little grandson, Raj; Imon with his sticky-out ears and his fishing net; my favorite lady and her porch steps. Somehow, they’ve all crept into my heart and have decided to stay there. And I’ve made sure they aren’t going anywhere.

May 24th was the last day in my beloved village. I went around giving everyone their gifts I had bought for them. I took cake to the factory one last time, walked down the muddy path to Tulshi’s house one last time, and ate mangos on my favorite lady’s porch one last time.

“Eat.” she commanded me.

“I’ll eat these two, but I can’t eat the others.” I said.

“Eat. Who will eat these if you don’t?” Ah, now she had tricked me. You see, I didn’t want her cut mangos to go to waste, either. I looked around for a way out of her trap. Suddenly I found it. He was wearing a blue shirt and building a roof on the stable with his dad.

“If I eat these, what will Rothin eat?” I asked, referring to her son.

“Rothin has mangos inside I will cut for him.” she replied with a sly grin. She was winning the game.

The aforementioned Rothin perked up at hearing his name. My favorite lady explained to him what we were arguing about, and he laughed.

“I’ll eat those mangos,” he said with a chuckle.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” I exclaimed. Finally, on my last day, I had won.

We had a supper invitation to Ritu’s house for supper. Ritu lives right behind us and is Whitney’s best friend. We were to go to her house around 8:30. And Shanto’s showed up at our house at 7:30.

This was no surprise; we had told them they could come over. “But,” we had said, we have an invite to someone’s house in the evening.” We had said the same thing to Nitay and his family, but they had decided to come over that evening too. Suddenly, there was a small dilemma.

You see, our whole family, Tulshi included, had been invited to Ritu’s for supper. Trevor and Lisa didn’t want to eat rice again, so we decided that Whit, Brandi, and I would go with Tulshi at 8:30. Well. Tulshi was suddenly at our gate telling us that he was ready to go to the supper deal. But all these people were still at our house! And I didn’t feel right about just leaving, since they had come to spend my last evening together with me.

It was a terribly awkward deal and I’m still not sure what happened, but somewhere in there we got out and were suddenly at Ritu’s house.

This letter is long, so I’ll spare you the details. Come to find out, there was a Puja going on at Ritu’s house, and that was the reason for the food invitation. Well, we don’t really like to show our support to worshiping idols, so usually we try to stay out of it. We told them we would just eat and leave.

If I didn’t know these people so well, it would have been mighty awkward. Even still, it was a little awkward! They sat us down in chairs again as they bustled off to the kitchen to finish preparing the food.

At last, they called us to come eat. Again, they fed me my favorite, soya beans. Whit, Brandi, Tulshi, Ritu, and I sat around the table together for the last time as I stuffed as much food as I could into my belly.

After we got home, Brandi and I walked into the bazaar so I could tell people goodbye. I was going to be leaving in the morning for Dhaka, but I had been so busy that I hadn’t got the chance to tell everyone goodbye. And that’s how the first goodbyes started-the first hard goodbyes of many. There were more waiting for me in the morning, I knew.

The next day, May 25th, I dutifully arose from my bed and stripped the sheets. I finished packing and watered all nineteen of my plants. I hauled all of my perfectly weighed suitcases to the door so they could be packed into the trunk. Then, I walked outside, trying not to think of anything. I tried to pretend this was just a normal day like any other.

People started coming over to say goodbye. I wasn’t even feeling emotional until Imon came. He was already crying when he walked up. But, being the tough thirteen-year-old boy that he is, he hid his face in his towel and kept his distance. But it was too late for me. The floodgates had opened. I ran upstairs and let it all out. “Lord, help me just get through this morning,” I prayed.

More and more people showed up. I carried my box of tissues with me. Sunil kaka looked at me and declared matter-of-factly “No, Miss Kalli! You must not cry. It won’t work if you cry. You need to be happy!”

Shanto had come, and wanted to have a prayer. Everyone congregated in our living room. After he was done, I wanted to say something; I wanted to thank all these people for all the love they’ve shown me. I wanted to tell them how much it meant to me that they accepted me and welcomed me into their lives with open arms.

In the end, I couldn’t say anything. I hope my tears said enough. I hope they somehow understand how grateful I am and how much I love them. I hope they know that no matter how far away I am or how many years pass, I’ll always keep them close.

I hugged more people that morning than I’ve ever hugged in one setting before. I shamelessly ugly-cried in front of everyone. When I told Tulshi goodbye, I could see that he was ugly-crying too. Without thinking, I shared my last clean tissue with him. He had been my best friend, and this was the last thing I was able to give him: a tissue to wipe his snotty nose.

Just then, he was called to open the gate for the van. I climbed in, waving one last time at all my favorite people. “Love you!” I managed, as we rumbled out of the gate.

“That was horrible,” I muttered into my paper towel roll as we drove away. “That was the worst thing of my life.”

Shathi hadn’t come to our house because she was feeling too emotional. Shanto had told us that it would mean a lot to her if we would stop in at their house on our way out. And so there was still one more goodbye to be had.

“Ma,” I said when I walked into the house. She took one look at me and started crying. “This is why I didn’t come!” she said, fanning her face. I stood there, blubbering and sniffling.

“Eat some rice,” came Shanto’s even voice. “You’ll feel better.”

It had been my personal custom. Every Friday after the amen was said in church, I would go into Shathi’s kitchen and eat plain white rice out of her rice cooker. Everyone thought I was crazy, but it was my job. Sometimes, I would even open her little cupboard to see if she had any food leftover from lunch. I knew I could help myself to whatever she had in the kitchen.

I opened the lid and picked out a big clump of sticky, white rice from the top. Now, I was blubbering and sniffling and trying to eat rice on top of it all. It must have been a sight to look at. Shathi decided that it would make her feel better if she could feed me one last time, so she got out the leftover okra and potato curry from breakfast. Then, she warmed me some goat’s milk on the stove.

Time was running out and it was time for me to get back to the van, where the rest of the family was waiting on me. Shanto, Shathi, and Antor walked with me. Then, amid the final goodbyes and thank-yous, we pulled away.

I felt emotionally haggard for the rest of the day. I would randomly start crying without any warning. I couldn’t dare think about anyone at my house, because then the dam would really break and the floods would come.

I kept my eyes glued to the window as we drove to Dhaka, trying to take in as much of my beloved Bangladesh as I could. It had just rained, and the palms were extra green and the fields looked extra lush. When it started to rain again, it only seemed fitting that even the sky would cry on a day like today.

The next day, May 26th, really was my last day in Bangladesh. Miss Trish and I didn’t fly out until 11:55 pm, so we had a whole day yet. We went to church in the morning. The little CSI clinic that serves as a church on Friday mornings could hardly hold us all. I happily read from my Bangla Bible and almost screamed out the Bangla hymns. (Sorry to the person in front of me.)

We all went to a burger place for lunch, and then my family went to a new store that I discovered. It was very cool. I bought so much stuff that when we got back to the flat, I had to re-pack my suitcases and decide what I wanted to leave and what I wanted to take.

Finally, it was time. Since leaving Khulna, I was starting to get excited about going home. It seemed the hardest part was over. We all squished into our brown abomination of a van- Kelly’s seven and our seven. As we drove to the airport, I gave Brandi some last-minute instructions on how to love all the village dogs correctly.

Finally, I saw the red airport sign glowing in the dark haze. I had been to the airport several times over the last two years, picking company up or dropping them off. I always wondered how it would feel when it was my time to go. Tonight, my time had come.

It felt like the last note of a beautiful song- a note that leaves you wanting to hear the song again, and grateful that you ever heard it in the first place.

As we stood on the sidewalk in front of the airport doors, I had to remember the first time I met Trevor and Lisa’s family. We were standing at the ferry dock in Mawa. Eighteen months had passed, and everyone had gotten taller and smarter. We had been through a lot together, these people and me. I’m sorry to say I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry anymore. And these goodbyes didn’t feel so final.

Bangladesh gave us a good farewell in the form of airport stress. We paid a little extra money to have some overweight and extra bags overlooked and then we were on our way. As we taxied down the runway, I was filled with thankfulness for this crazy corner of the world.

When we took off and flew low over the streets of Dhaka, I craned my neck for one last glance out the window. The streets below were packed with cars. I could just imagine the chaos, the noise, the smell. It had all become normal to me; expected. It had become home. And it was all behind me now.

The best two years of my life so far…

A lifetime of thank-yous.

When we circled over the ocean to land in Singapore, we could see the lights of ships out at sea. I couldn’t help but think of the cargo ships anchored on the Rupsha River that runs along the edge of Khulna City. And when we rode the skytrain through Singapore airport, I thought of how Singapore had the same trees as Bangladesh. When I saw a sweet lady wearing a saree, I just had to ask her where she was from. It seemed like everything reminded me of Bangladesh.

“I am from Delhi,” the sweet lady told me. I told her that I liked her saree, and that I was going home from two years in Bangladesh. “Bangladesh? How nice.”

Another security line, another flight. This one was 15 hours and 20 minutes long, so I squished up against the self-dimming windows and tried to sleep.

When I woke up, I was sure we should be halfway home. I was furious to find out that we were only over Japan and there were still 12 more hours to go. It felt so unfair. I had slept for what felt like hours. Surely we should be halfway to San Francisco by now! What’s more, my seat neighbor was still sleeping and wouldn’t wake up!

I did eventually get out to walk around, and the sun did eventually rise on what felt like the longest flight in the world. (Actually, the longest flight in the world is only three hours longer.) I looked out my window and caught a glimpse of where the sea met the land. It was green. And it was clean. And it was America. I must admit, I got a little emotional.

Trish and I made it through customs without incident, collected our luggage, and tried to get used to the idea that we were back in America. First impressions: it’s really weird to be able to effortlessly understand everything that is being said around you. I felt like I was eavesdropping on everyone. It’s also really strange that everyone can understand me. It felt like there was little privacy and I needed to talk quietly.

Our next flight was to Denver. Trish had one more to KC after that, but Denver is where my journey was complete. 30 hours, 3 countries, 13 time zones, and 1 International Date Line later, I was home in Denver.

When I walked out of the jetbridge, Tressa was standing there waiting for me! I never thought she would book a ticket to Denver just to see me come home. My jaw dropped so wide it was dragging the carpet picking up dead bugs as I walked up to her. She was grinning from ear to ear, feeling like she’d done something really cool. She had.

I told Trisha goodbye. We’ve been through a lot, she and I. I am so glad to have someone like her to experience BD with. I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world.

And what’s waiting for me at the top of the escalator but Dad and Mom, Grant and Greta, a bunch of balloons, and a sign that says, “Welcome Home Kalli.” I got hugs from everyone, even Grant. (He said Greta made him do it.)

I got my Asian Zing wings from BWW that night. I wanted to try the hottest sauce on the menu so see if it could even hold a candle to BD spice. The waitress told me they were out, so I got a little cup of the next hottest one. When I first tried it, I was surprised to find out that there was no spice whatsoever. Eventually, the burn did come, and dipping my wings in that sauce gave my mouth a burn of just the perfect amount. If I didn’t accomplish anything else in my two years, at least I can eat spicy food now.

We went to the Denver aquarium the next morning. It was a very full-circle moment, because I went to the same aquarium the day before I flew to Bangladesh. We had lunch at the very same Texas Roadhouse that my folks and I ate at for my last supper. (Wow, full-circle-moment chills, anyone?) Tressa flew back to Montana that day at 4:30, so we took her to the airport and drove home to Kansas.

When we dropped Grant’s off at their house, I got to meet their dog. She’s no Toby, but she’ll do. I’m already madly in love with her. She didn’t know about me right at first, but by now I’m certain that I’m her new best friend.

And that’s about all I have to tell. I started my job yesterday. I am adjusting. Here are some of the things I’ve had to get used to:

• At first, the chairs were too soft, the carpets were too soft, and the beds were too comfortable. I still prefer to sit on the floor.

• The Spanish that I hear in the grocery store confuses me because I try to pick out Bangla words. I think that surely I should be able to understand what they’re saying.

• When I walked into the bank to get a new debit card, I realized that I didn’t have to practice what I was going to say or how I was going to say it.

• It’s cold outside and it’s cold inside where the A/C blows all the time. Even the breeze that blows is cold and the sunshine isn’t warm enough. I haven't sweated a drop since I got here.

• The food isn’t spicy.

• I am embarrassed to say that I forgot how to pump gas.

• When I talk to my sisters, I still find myself wondering what they’re doing, since we are twelve hours apart. (Not anymore!)

• I am getting used to being a “normal person” in public again. I’m not a special foreigner anymore. Nobody cares about me in public. I’m just one of them.

• I’m not used to not seeing my brother every day. When I left, we were living in the same house. Now that I’m back, it feels like I should see him every day, but now he lives 15 minutes away with a wife. (A very neat one, I might add. I am not mad about this addition.)

• I can’t just walk out my front door and immediately have an entire village of friends to talk to. I feel lonely a lot of the time.

I have nothing to complain about. I have two years full of golden memories, many strangers who became family, and an entire country tucked away in my heart for the rest of my life. I’ll never forget Bangladesh or what her people have done for me, and a part of me will always be there.

After going to Bible School singing last night, I told my sister that I wish I could go back just to experience coming home again. There’s just something about coming home. There’s something about being with people you’ve known your whole life that gives you a sense of belonging you can’t find anywhere else. There will be more adjustments. But I know I’ll be OK. I always have been.

Someday, I will return to Bangladesh. I’m quite certain that, in a way, that will feel like returning home, too.

Until the next time,

-Kalli

অদিতি

Thanks for going on this journey with me. I would have written the letters just for myself even if there would have been no one to read them, but it sure made it fun to tell stories each month. I hope you got to experience a little bit of the beauty of Bangladesh through my eyes, and I hope you learned to love it as much as I do.