The Day That Took Away All My Colors

Date: 14 April 2017 (Pahela Baishakh)

Isn’t that a beautiful date?
It truly was — once upon a time. Before 2017, that date meant joy, colors, laughter, and pure memories.
We used to play with colors, even though we weren’t allowed to.
I studied in a madrasa, along with my friends and cousins. Color play was forbidden there. If the Huzur ever saw color on us, we’d surely get punished. But who cared? Our childhood hearts were wild and fearless.

I remember it so vividly — how we used to hide colors in small packets, carefully hidden in our pockets or under our shirts. The thrill of sneaking out to play Holi-like games, using those powdered colors, and running around the village.
It was a small, simple life, yet so rich in emotions and joy.

I, Arif Chacha, Rahman Chacha, Mehedi Mama, and so many others — we turned the village into a rainbow.
Even though the colors were forbidden, happiness wasn’t.
After the color games were over, our secret mission was to rush to the pond. We had to wash ourselves clean, erase every sign of color from our bodies. Because if Huzur found out, we would surely be beaten.
That fear — strangely — added to the fun.
That pond became our place of laughter, splashes, and silly jokes.

We were young.
We were wild.
We were free.

2016 — that was the last year I felt those colors deeply.
Then came 2017.

Pahela Baishakh — April 14th, 2017.
It wasn’t just a new Bengali year.
It was the end of an era for me.

The day that used to be colorful,
The day that once brought joy,
That very same day washed all the colors away from my life.

I remember everything about that day.
Every sound. Every scent. Every silence.
But I won’t tell it all — some memories are too painful to speak aloud.
But I can say this:

That day marked the beginning of a dark chapter in my life.
A chapter that still echoes within me, every single day.

You left that day.
You, my companion in color, my partner in laughter.
You went to some unknown world —
And you didn’t take any of us with you.

How could you leave like that?
How could you not even think once —
How will Wafi live without you?

That question still haunts me.

You were always the light — the vibrant color — in all our celebrations.
You were the soul of every gathering, the first one to bring color, the last one to leave the pond.
And yet, on that day, you disappeared —
quietly, suddenly, painfully.

People say I’m okay now.
They say, “Wafi is strong,”
“Wafi has moved on,”
“Wafi has found peace.”

But what do they know?

What do they know about the sleepless nights,
the invisible tears,
the prayers whispered under my breath?

They say I’m free now —
but are we ever truly free from our past?

You left, and with you, you took all the colors of my world.
You left me in black and white.

Still, I pray for you.
I ask Allah every day to give you peace —
to give you light, warmth, and the joy you once gave us.

Allah is the best of planners.
And though I miss you, though I ache for you,
I accept His decision.
There is wisdom in His will, even if I cannot see it yet.

But oh, how I wish I could see you one more time.
How I wish I could tell you how much I miss you.
How I wish I could give you something — anything.
But what do I have?

All I have left…
is this prayer.

And so I offer it, with all my heart:

Ya Allah, please take care of them.
Please keep them close to You.
And if possible — let them know that I never forgot.

Never.

This was not just a story. It was real.
The pain, the colors, the silence — all of it truly happened.
This is the true account of a little boy from a small corner of Asia.
A boy named Wafi, who lost a part of his world on a day meant for celebration.
He didn’t lose just anyone —
He lost his mother.
And with her, he lost the colors of his childhood, the warmth of home, and the comfort only a mother can give.

In that loss, he found a lifetime of prayers, silent strength, and memories that still echo through every festival, every color, every April 14th.

May this memory live on — not just in his heart,
but in the hearts of those who read and feel it.
Because this isn’t fiction. This is truth.
A truth painted in love, grief, and an unspoken farewell —
from a son to his mother.