Badhon
Badhon is a very special boy. Recently, he turned four and blew out a corresponding number of flickering candles on an enormous chocolate birthday cake. All of his family members were there with him, and over 100 neighbours and friends attended his party that night. Each one of them wound their way through the narrow streets of the bazaar next to his house and climbed up five flights of stairs to the unfinished rooftop that had been closed in with a colourful shamiana (tent) lined with twinkly lights. They all took turns sitting at clothed tables to partake in a veritable feast in his honour.
I was there that night. I took part in the celebrations and, most importantly, I met Badhon. He was wearing a handsome gold kurta pajama, sitting in his grandmother’s lap. She was holding his head.
Badhon is the son of Shumon, our office driver. He works long hours, but wears a smile from early in the morning late into the night. Shumon personally invited every one at our office to Badhon’s birthday party two weeks in advance. I was surprised, to say the least, that he was making such a big affair of it in a country where most people don’t even know when they were born, let alone what a birthday is.
As I looked down on Badhon, saw his grandmother’s leathery hand tenderly holding his head, and looked into his eyes for the first time, I realized instantly just how special Badhon is. It was not simply because he was clearly disabled, but because he was clearly the most well loved child I have met in Bangladesh.
Badhon couldn’t seem to focus his eyes on me; I’m not actually sure if he had any idea what was going on. But I put a finger in his small hand and he clenched it tightly for a little while.
Shumon then came and carried his limp son over to the decadent cake that awaited him. Together with his wife, Baby, a Muslim who converted to Christianity to marry the man she loved, they held their son and blew out his four candles together. Then, in the tradition of Bangladeshis who do celebrate birthdays, they all fed each other a mouthful of cake.
If Shumon were not the man he is, Badhon would be hidden away on his birthday as well as every other day of the year. In fact Badhon might have been abandoned, or perhaps his mother abandoned for committing the crime of giving birth to a boy whose spine did not develop properly. And yet there he was, in his father’s arms, surrounded by people giving him the love and respect that his society denies so many like him.
I went home full of meat and cake and a renewed faith in the power of love.
(The photo I framed and gave Shumon and his wife to thank them for the wonderful party)
I was there that night. I took part in the celebrations and, most importantly, I met Badhon. He was wearing a handsome gold kurta pajama, sitting in his grandmother’s lap. She was holding his head.
Badhon is the son of Shumon, our office driver. He works long hours, but wears a smile from early in the morning late into the night. Shumon personally invited every one at our office to Badhon’s birthday party two weeks in advance. I was surprised, to say the least, that he was making such a big affair of it in a country where most people don’t even know when they were born, let alone what a birthday is.
As I looked down on Badhon, saw his grandmother’s leathery hand tenderly holding his head, and looked into his eyes for the first time, I realized instantly just how special Badhon is. It was not simply because he was clearly disabled, but because he was clearly the most well loved child I have met in Bangladesh.
Badhon couldn’t seem to focus his eyes on me; I’m not actually sure if he had any idea what was going on. But I put a finger in his small hand and he clenched it tightly for a little while.
Shumon then came and carried his limp son over to the decadent cake that awaited him. Together with his wife, Baby, a Muslim who converted to Christianity to marry the man she loved, they held their son and blew out his four candles together. Then, in the tradition of Bangladeshis who do celebrate birthdays, they all fed each other a mouthful of cake.
If Shumon were not the man he is, Badhon would be hidden away on his birthday as well as every other day of the year. In fact Badhon might have been abandoned, or perhaps his mother abandoned for committing the crime of giving birth to a boy whose spine did not develop properly. And yet there he was, in his father’s arms, surrounded by people giving him the love and respect that his society denies so many like him.
I went home full of meat and cake and a renewed faith in the power of love.
(The photo I framed and gave Shumon and his wife to thank them for the wonderful party)
posted by ash at 5:34 AM
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