Chapter Five: The Airport Goodbye
Zaria's pov:
The morning of the flight felt unreal — like someone had pressed pause on the whole world except us.
The house was full of noise and silence at the same time. Aunts fussed over luggage weight, uncles double-checked documents, and my mother… she just stood still for a moment, staring at my passport in her hand like it was the last thread tying me to her.
"Ria," she said softly, her voice breaking just a little. "Eat something before we go. You haven't had breakfast."
I tried to smile. "I can't, Ma. My stomach feels like knots."
She sighed and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear — a gesture she's done since I was five. "You'll get hungry on the plane. Just take some paratha and dim bhaji."
The smell of ghee filled the kitchen, too familiar, too comforting. I took one bite, but it tasted like goodbye.
When we loaded the luggage into the car, the air outside was thick with humidity and the faint scent of raadhuni from someone's kitchen. Relatives had gathered in front of the gate — chattering, crying, offering blessings.
My aunts hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe.
"Bidesh jachcho, Ria! Don't forget to call!"
"Write to us! Don't forget your language!"
"Stay safe, shona! Don't get lost in those foreign streets!"
And my uncles — the ones who teased me endlessly when I was little — suddenly looked older, quieter.
Dad tried to stay composed as he helped load the last suitcase. His jaw was tight, eyes glistening though he refused to let a single tear fall. I'd never seen him like that.
When it was time to leave, Nanu clutched my hands in hers. Her palms were soft but trembling.
"Promise me, Ria," she whispered. "No matter how far you go, don't forget where your prayers began."
"I promise," I said, my voice shaking.
As we got in the car, I caught one last glimpse of my street — the cracked walls, the hanging wires, the corner store that sold chanachur and ice lollies. My heart felt too heavy for my chest.
The drive to Hazrat Shahjalal Airport was quiet.
Even Lia and Maya barely spoke.
We just held hands in the backseat, our palms warm and damp, eyes fixed on the city slipping past.
The rickshaws, the buses painted in bright colors, the street vendors yelling "cha! cha!" — everything I'd always thought was too loud, too chaotic — now felt like music.
When the car stopped, I froze for a moment. The airport gates towered above us, glass gleaming in the morning light.
Maya's mom was already crying. Lia's dad held her hand like he wasn't ready to let go. My parents stood close to me — one on each side — and suddenly I was ten again, clutching their fingers at the fair, terrified of getting lost.
But this time, it was me who was leaving them behind.
Before check-in, we sat together on a bench near the departure gate. No one said much — what could you say when your whole life was packed in a suitcase?
Then Dad finally spoke, his voice low and cracked.
"You've always been the brave one, Ria. Ever since you were small."
Ma pressed a hand to her face, tears spilling freely now. "Study hard. Eat properly. Call every day, okay? Every day."
I nodded, my throat burning. "I will, Ma. I promise."
When I hugged them, it wasn't the quick kind of hug you give before school. It was long, trembling, desperate — the kind that feels like time is running out.
As we walked through the security line, I turned around one last time.
My parents were standing by the glass wall, waving. My mother's dupatta fluttered in the air-conditioned breeze. My father mouthed, "We love you."
That was when the tears I'd been holding back finally broke loose.
Flashback:
Just two days earlier, it was Results Day.
The courtyard of our school was buzzing — students screaming, hugging, crying.
"Ria! You did it!" shouted Anika, my best friend since grade one. She ran up to me, holding our marksheets. "You got GPA-5! You're going to America, genius!"
I laughed, but the sound caught in my throat. Because even in that moment of joy, I could feel the distance creeping in — a silent goodbye forming behind every smile.
That afternoon, we all met on the school rooftop. The sun was setting, painting the sky in soft gold. We didn't talk about leaving. We didn't talk about goodbyes. We just sat there, legs dangling over the ledge, pretending the world wasn't about to change.
When I finally told them I was flying in two days, Anika cried first. Then Farhan. Then all of us.
We hugged like we could hold time still if we just stayed close enough.
Back in the present, I walked down the long airport corridor, every step echoing like a countdown.
Maya squeezed my hand. "We'll make it, right?"
"Yeah," I whispered. "We'll make it."
But even as I said it, my eyes stayed fixed on the blurry reflection in the glass — my parents, growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared behind the crowd.
When the plane took off, the city below turned into a web of lights and shadows. I pressed my forehead against the window, the bracelet Sofia gave me still tied around my wrist.
Dhaka was fading — my city, my people, my language, my childhood — all shrinking beneath the clouds.
And for the first time, the dream of "going abroad" didn't feel like freedom.
It felt like loss.
"Bhalo theko, amar desh," I whispered.
("Stay well, my country.")