On the morning of Eid, I woke up before sunrise and, for a few seconds, I forgot that my father was gone. The room was still dark and everything around me was quiet. I stayed in bed with my eyes half open, waiting for the voice I had heard every Eid morning of my life. My father used to call me Moni. I waited for Baba to call my name in that gentle way he always did, as if I were still his little child who needed to be woken up with love. Still, for a moment, my heart believed he would come to my door and wake me up like every other year. But no voice came. No footsteps came. The house remained silent, and that silence reminded me of the truth all over again.
Eid used to be a joyful day for me, but this year it felt quieter and sadder. This was my first Eid without my father. I could no longer hear his voice, the voice I used to hear first thing in the morning on Eid day. He used to wake me up gently, as if I were still a little baby. Even though I am an adult now, he always treated me like his child. Maybe that is why, even after one year, I still cannot accept the fact that he is no longer with me.
On Eid day, my mother always cooked our favourite meals and desserts. Our home used to be filled with the warm, aromatic smell of food. I used to prepare my father’s breakfast before he went for Eid prayers because he never liked eating breakfast made by anyone else except me. I would iron his new panjabi and keep his shoes ready for him to wear on that special day. Before leaving for prayers, he would give salami to my mother and me. Those little moments filled our hearts with happiness. The excitement of Eid remained throughout the entire day. The love he showed us through ordinary moments has now become one of our most precious memories.
This photo was taken on Eid morning in 2023. My mother spent the morning preparing all these dishes for Baba and me.But this year, everything was different. He was not here. He had left us.
I woke up before sunrise without hearing my father’s voice say, “Moni! Wake up, it’s morning,” for the first time in my life. For a few seconds, I forgot everything and waited for him to call my name like he always did. But the house remained silent. There was no one to wake me up early in the morning. I did not have to prepare anyone’s breakfast, and there was no salami waiting for me this year.
In our drawing room, his chair remained empty the whole day. No one sat there. Seeing that empty chair hurt more than I can ever explain. I cried my eyes out on Eid day.
My mother was not the same either. She tried to act normal in front of everyone, but I could see the sadness she carried silently in her eyes. She did not cook anything special as she used to. The grief of losing my father changed her deeply. She stopped talking much about anything. She did the Eid preparations, but without the same energy she once had.
My mother on an Eid day after Baba passed away. She no longer wore jewelry or new sarees.
Losing him changed not only me but also the entire atmosphere of our home. Everyone in the neighbourhood was celebrating Eid with laughter, excitement, and the warmth of family, but inside our home, the silence created by my father’s absence was shattering my heart. I could not pretend to smile.
I cannot imagine Eid, or even ordinary days, without Baba.
Every year before Eid, my father bought me my favourite dresses, took me shopping for things I loved, and bought me everything I wanted. There is no one else with whom I can make childish demands as I did with my Baba. No one can ever love or care for me the way he did. This year, I could not ask anyone to buy me a bottle of Coca-Cola or a piece of cake.
I never understood how deeply I could miss someone until the first Eid without my father.
The last book I gave my father was Crime and Punishment. I remember him holding it before he was admitted to the hospital. It remains tied to a particular moment in my memory.
As the youngest daughter of my parents, I was very close to him. I used to buy books for him. The last book I bought for him during his cancer treatment was Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. After returning home from the hospital, he read the book and talked to me about Rodion Raskolnikov and how much he liked the novel. At the time, it felt like an ordinary conversation, but now it has become one of the memories I hold closest to my heart.
At that time, I never imagined it would be the last book I would ever buy for him. Now, whenever I see that book on the shelf, it no longer feels like just a novel. It feels like a part of him still remains in my room.
Cancer took my Baba away from us. He was diagnosed with stage 2 cancer. I never imagined that his illness would take him away from us forever. At first, I thought he would recover and everything would become normal again, but slowly I began to notice changes in him. I noticed the tiredness in his eyes, the weakness in his body, and the way his voice sounded softer than before.
My father always seemed strong to me, so seeing him become so weak felt unreal. He became tired just from walking a short distance, and every time I noticed it, my heart quietly broke.
The hospital became a part of our lives. The long, silent hallways, the anxious waiting, and the smell of medicine slowly became familiar to us. Even during his treatment, he continued worrying about us more than himself. Every time he saw me, he asked whether I had eaten properly. It always amazed me how a person could care so deeply for others while carrying so much pain inside himself.
The hallway of Khwaja Yunus Ali Medical College & Hospital in Sirajganj, where my Baba was admitted for months. I would often stand here for hours, thinking of him and holding on to the hope that everything would somehow be alright.
Deep inside, I was terrified of losing him, but I never wanted to say it out loud. As long as he was beside me, I wanted to believe everything would be alright.
Sadly, that did not happen.
Sometimes, I still feel as though he will suddenly call out my name. I still expect him to come home, to come to me. I still crave his love and affection. My mind understands that he is gone, but my heart still waits for him.
Looking back now, I realise that I do not even remember which conversation between us was the last one. At the time, everything felt ordinary. Now, all those moments are only memories.
I used to hold my Baba’s hand like this during his final days.
When Eid came after his death, every memory of his illness returned to me. The empty space at the dining table reminded me of the days when he struggled to eat during treatment. In his final days, when the doctors told us the news, a part of me still continued hoping for a miracle because I could not imagine a world in which my father did not exist.
Now I understand that losing my father does not only mean his physical absence. It also means learning to live with the memories I made with him throughout my life.
After his death, Eid will never feel the same again. He left a silence in our lives that no celebration can fill. Yet, in that silence, his love continues to exist. It exists in our home, in our memories, and in the part of me that will always remain his little girl.
I terribly miss my father on Eid days.
Sanjida Parven Noishi is a student of Bangla Literature at the University of Dhaka.
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