Every year, twice a year, during winter and summer vacations, my family travelled from Dhaka to Feni, Noakhali. We would spend our holidays in our Nana Bari, the home of my Nana, or maternal grandfather.
Days before the journey, we would get very excited. Amma would make frequent trips to Nawabpur, or what was then called Jinnah Avenue, to buy fabrics or wool. She would then sew or weave them into clothes to gift her family members. She would also spend more time in the kitchen, cooking as many dishes as she could for my father – he was the only member of the family who would be staying behind as he had his office to attend to; he would join us, if at all, for a few days in the end.
Amma would also repeat instructions to our house-helps. She would repeat them so many times that we would have memorised what they were supposed to do while we were away. Moreover, she would spend the last few days before the journey packing and repacking, ensuring that we had everything we needed, not only for the fortnight or so we would spend in Feni but also for the journey back and forth.
On the day of the journey, the six of us, elated at the prospect of a holiday, would board two or three rickshaws in the morning, and head to the railway station in Phulbaria. We would make our way through the platform, overflowing with passengers and hangers-on, coolies and vendors, beggars and con-artists, as well as the railway police and ticket-checkers. Amma would lead us through the crowd. It felt as if the whole world was heading for the interclass compartment; somehow, we always managed to reach the train just when it was ready to leave the station.
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