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Why heaven ?

Oblivious to father's death, boy wants him back in Barisal

Zyma Islam
"My father died last night- what does it mean? Can I still lie down beside him on this bed?" - three and a half years old Asir was asking these questions pointing to the stretcher carrying his father's motionless body at Dhaka Medical College Hospital (DMCH) yesterday.
An eerie silence fell over the DMCH room packed with journalists, Asir's relatives and hospital staff as none could find a fitting answer to the innocent questions of z Asir whose father Asad Gazi had passed x away the previous night after his two weeks x long battle with life in the burn unit of the
DMCH.
J Asad Gazi sustained critical burns after o hartal pickets had hurled a petrol bomb at o his CNG-run auto rickshaw in Savar on °- November 3.
When this reporter tried to assuage Asir's grief by saying that his father was in heaven, a place with beautiful flowers and
Why heaven?
FROM PAGE 1 rivers, Asir in an uncanny candour replied, "We have those in our village as well! Instead of going to heaven, why can't he return our village in Barisal then?"
Neither the reporter nor anyone else in the room had the words to clear his inquisition this time either.
However, Asir, clad in short pants and a shirt, perhaps could realize that something terrible had happened and he would never again be able to talk to his father as he saw his sister and mother wailing their heart out on the other side of the room.
His elder sister Tania, a petite pre-teen, sat on the floor banging her head against the wall, stomping her feet, making futile attempts to curb the hurt inside.
Sitting in another corner, their mother Marzina was visibly baffled by the bereavement and the intensity of the shock.
"Oh my dear bird, where did you flee?... Why did you leave me?" Marzina was wailing as everyone stood in an eerie calm. In a choked voice, she was throwing questions on the face of politics of violence and seeking an answer to her bereavement.
Many inside the dimly lit DMCH room wiped their tears but none could do anything to heal her wounds.
Instead of a commonly used white sheet of cloth, his body was shrouded with a Nakshi Kantha sewn by the women in his family with love in each stitch.