Sticker kids
When I came back to Bangladesh, my elder daughter was close to 6 and younger one was 2 years and 8 months old. We picked a humble rented house near my mom’s. Close to it was the busy street, full of shops, life and lights. On that road, we saw beautiful kids — just our daughters age, playing by the street. It was Brishti, Mim, Jannat and many more. I brought them home, played with them and my girls. Our landlord complained so it stopped. But we used to meet up, I would buy them snacks, things whenever there was enough time. We, me and my partner, used to talk a lot about them at home — how kids of the same ages are facing different realities. I cannot explain how selfish, how cruel it felt. Probably, we started to push those thoughts away before it consumed us.
We once paid the admission fees for their schools when they told us they had to dropout of school. After that, few of them started to avoid us, and would not have eye contacts. Only Brishti and Mim remained, being bold enough to admit they hated school! And would never go back there.
We kept staying in the same house, crossing the same roads, and Brishti, Mim turned out to be sticker kids — lively running after people to sell tickets. Our rituals continued — eid shopping, snacks but they remained on the streets. When our daughter had her first period, my partner woke me up as he could not sleep thinking of what might happen to Brishti and Mim on their first day of period. We looked out for them, they looked way younger to have their periods. We asked if they needed anything — they giggled and ran away.
During Covid, marginally 2 years went by. Same home, same roads, same people. After a long time, saw Brishti and Mim with bunch of new kids (and stickers!). Brishti did not grow much taller but was wearing an orna, a sign that she has grown older. Hugged her and I went on with what I was doing.
Last night saw all the kids without Brishti. She married a security guard, all the other kids shouted. They were angry that it was a love-marriage and she did not tell about it to any of the other kids. I got the stickers from them, not processing the information properly in my head. My partner was beaming in joy, “finally she is safe, nova.” I did not know how to feel — will I see her again on the street or her kids? On a gloomy morning, I couldn't help to see how my activism only thinks of rich kids, rich women’s problems. I just passed by these sticker kids — could not light up their lives.
