It was in the 1990s that my Mejho Mama (my mother’s second brother, who is no more) took us to the Russian Cultural Centre in Dhaka to watch a documentary film, “Muktir Gaan”. Then a teenager, my heart was always ready to fall in love. And I did. He was the narrator of the story -- the young man with the black-rimmed, thick glasses and a determined jaw, the one who could not join the frontline freedom fighters because of his myopia. I could feel his heartbreak, the emotions he described on setting his foot on the liberated part of his motherland, my beloved Bangladesh.
It was in the 1990s that my Mejho Mama (my mother’s second brother, who is no more) took us to the Russian Cultural Centre in Dhaka to watch a documentary film, “Muktir Gaan”. Then a teenager, my heart was always ready to fall in love. And I did. He was the narrator of the story -- the young man with the black-rimmed, thick glasses and a determined jaw, the one who could not join the frontline freedom fighters because of his myopia. I could feel his heartbreak, the emotions he described on setting his foot on the liberated part of his motherland, my beloved Bangladesh.
