When the camera slipped from his hands and shattered the
lens into pieces, and he found that he did not have enough money to buy a new
one, he wondered if he had sacrificed a little too much by getting married and
having a child.
Later as he lay stretched under the star-studded dappled
canvas of the sky, cocooned within the rapturous fumes from a chhilim, Hiya ran
up to him with a cardboard box, with a circular jagged glass fitted at one of
its ends. “Baba, eta tor jonyo. Happy birthday! Chol, khete chol ebar. Ma
dakche”. With tears trickling down his cheeks, he planted a kiss on her
forehead and knew there had been no mistake.
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