The Final Night on the Rooftop

The Final Night on the Rooftop

The sky was painted in shades of orange and gold as the sun was slowly lowering. In the far corner of the rooftop, a spot full of memories, Iman sat quietly. Like the house he was leaving behind, a cup of tea steamed gently in his hand, its warmth gradually dwindling

This house, located in a busy area of old Dhaka, was where he had grown up. Life really happened on the rooftop. Stories under the stars were a staple of summer evenings. Grandpa would sit with his thin shawl and tell stories about his childhood, some imagined, some true. The siblings would listen with wide eyes while Grandma softly rubbed their hair. Ma would ascend carrying a tray of steaming tea, fried onions, and puffed rice for everyone. Additionally, his younger sister Trisha would laugh aloud as she chased him around while holding a kite.

Life seemed to go on forever back then. Easy. Warm. But time changed, as it always does. Iman was just finishing school when Grandpa died. Then Grandma came along, her absence a silent emptiness. After receiving a scholarship, Trisha traveled to Canada. Iman also got swept up in the tide of his career and had to relocate to a different city in order to find employment. The only people left in the house were Ma and Abbu, who grew old in silence without their kids.

Frequently, Ma would call, her voice upbeat but tinged with a subtle sense of isolation. She would say, "When are you coming, baba?" Busy with flights and deadlines, Iman would always say, "Soon, Ma." Very soon. That "soon" never appeared. It wasn't until it was too late. Abbu called, and he hurried back. Like her voice, Ma's body had become weary from her illness. On one of her final days, she held Iman's hand and said, "Beta, whatever you do in life, don't let your family become strangers." She smiled weakly. All other things come and go.

He never forgot what she had said. The house was a hollow echo of its former self after Ma's death. The warmth—the laughter, the aromas of her cooking, her humming in the kitchen—was gone, but the walls and the antique furniture remained intact. Iman could see that Abbu was trying to remain strong. They were reminded of what they had lost in every part of the house. Thus, they came to a decision a year later. In order to sell the house and proceed.

Grandpa's walking stick, Trisha's broken toy piano, and Ma's old sarees, which still had a hint of her perfume, were among the memories they packed into boxes. Beneath Ma's bed, Iman discovered an old photo album that contained sun-bleached prints of birthday celebrations and rooftop picnics. He simply wiped away the dust without saying anything. As though the house itself were bidding him farewell, he sat quietly on his last night on the rooftop, allowing the wind to caress his face. Out of nowhere, a sound pierced his mind. Laughter.

He turned to see a young boy struggling to fly a kite on the rooftop next to him. In the same way that Grandpa had assisted Iman, his father was assisting him. And something clicked right then. Time wasn't mean; it just went by. Childhoods came to an end, but new ones started. He got up, took one last glance around, then descended and sat next to Abbu in the living room.

Abbu gave him a long look. He smiled slowly, his face kind but worn. "That would have pleased your mother." It was more than just keeping the paint and bricks intact. It had to do with protecting roots. rebuilding their family's heart where it all started. And that night, the house didn't feel so empty for the first time in a long time.