Did Grandmother really leave that suitcase for me? Did she assign me the solemn right—the single right—to open it? What could be inside? Perhaps, behind that mysterious suitcase, another grandmother will be discovered—a grandmother I never knew. Or perhaps some unknown secret of hers will be revealed from within. Maybe she hid something there she would not tell anyone else;

ADNAN SYED

We once lived in Jackson Heights, Queens, New York City. Those days still return to me, especially when my grandmother’s death anniversary comes around. At such times, I drift back into the past and live quietly within my memories. My grandmother was no ordinary woman. You may call her Birangona, but to me she was a brave freedom fighter of Bangladesh, shaped by courage and sacrifice. Her name will forever remain engraved in my hurt. The story is written in her memory.

The old, rusted key now rests in my hand.

As I run my fingers over its rough metal surface, I feel the soft, velvety touch of my grandmother’s hand—as if time itself has folded back. And it’s not only her touch I sense; I can also smell her. Grandmother used to rub jasmine and hibiscus oil into her hair. Whenever she entered a room, the air would fill with that sweet fragrance. Even now, I can smell it—as if she’s standing right beside me, smiling softly, her hair scented with hibiscus oil.

My eyes are full of wonder, and my heart trembles with curiosity.

What could be inside this magical suitcase?

Before she passed away, Grandmother had said something strange:

“After my death, this suitcase will belong to my only grandson, Nabil.”

From my very childhood, Grandmother had been my best friend. When I lived in Bangladesh, she was the center of my world. Once, she used to teach at a girls’ school in a small town. Perhaps because she was a teacher, she had a deep love for reading and knowledge. It was she who first placed a book in my hands—the collection of children’s stories.

Then one day, holding my parents’ hands, I left for America. I was only 10 years old. But even after all these years, I’ve never been able to accept that separation from her. I remember pleading with my father again and again,

“Baba, why do we have to go to America?”

But he never really answered.

He only said what all grown-ups say:

America is the land of opportunities—better studies, a good job, more money…

No one thought of the loneliness we were leaving behind—of my grandmother who would be left all alone. No one thought of the nights when I wouldn’t fall asleep wrapped in her arms, or of the sky-high stories she would whisper into my ear.

Our separation began the very day we boarded the plane for New York. I still remember, at the airport she placed her hand on my head, whispered a prayer, kissed my forehead, and hugged me tightly. She said softly in my ear:

“Nabil, don’t be sad, my dear. Life will have its hard times. But never forget your grandmother—ever! Write me a letter every month. Call me. I’ll be waiting by the phone. And when you go to America, you’ll read many new books, learn so many new things. But promise me, don’t read alone—read to me too. You’ll see, one day I’ll come to visit you there.”

And she kept her promise—she came to America twice.

But America never felt like home to her.

No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t keep her there.

She used to say,

“How many days do I have left to live, my dear? I want to spend my last days in my own country—in my own soil.”

Did Grandmother really leave that suitcase for me? Did she assign me the solemn right—the single right—to open it? What could be inside? Perhaps, behind that mysterious suitcase, another grandmother will be discovered—a grandmother I never knew. Or perhaps some unknown secret of hers will be revealed from within. Maybe she hid something there she would not tell anyone else; maybe she wanted only me to know. The mystery tightened around me. For days I felt an odd mixture of curiosity and the scent of adventure. I could not wait.

Let me tell you a little about my father.

His name is Raqib Khan—a face full of quiet intelligence, fair complexion, a sharp, high nose. He stands nearly six feet tall. At first glance, he could easily be mistaken for a model. He works at a bank in New York and occasionally writes in Bangla newspapers. Recently, he has been working on a manuscript about the contribution of Bangladeshis around the world to Bangladesh’s Liberation War—in other words, he is preparing himself to be a future researcher on the history of our independence.

Though he lives in New York, his heart remains in Bangladesh. In our living room in New York hangs a black-and-white photograph of my grandfather—Bir Muktijoddha Farooq Khan. On the TV stand rest two flags side by side—one American, one Bangladeshi. Even on our car dashboard, there’s a small mat with the flag of Bangladesh. My father’s pride in his homeland never fades. How could it? He lost his father in 1971—only three months before independence, on a dark night in September, when the Pakistani military attacked their home.

It’s a long story, but let me tell it briefly.

This is an excerpt. Read the rest of the story on The Daily Star and Star Books and Literature’s websites.

Adnan Syed is a resident of New York, USA, and occasionally writes for Star Books and Literature.