The black and white picture of my father’s family guru maintains an established seat in my childhood. I remember, waking up and walking into my parents’ bedroom to see the large framed photo of a mysterious man sitting serenely in cross-legged position. The towering photograph dominated the cabinet space that it was placed atop of. Gurudev was the name of the Indian guru in the photo. He was my father’s patron saint, and I know my father holds Gurudev in a very high respect to this day.
When I was younger I remember moments when my father would pray to Gurudev in deep thought. It was times like those that made me realize that my father still held on to fragments of a past life. He grounded himself by praying to Gurudev, and this let him connect to memories of the past. Being an immigrant has certain hardships that come with leaving a place that was once called home. It pains me sometimes to see my dad hold on to his past, because I know it isn’t all that easy for him to visit Bangladesh whenever he wants to.
All those Hindu prayers in a foreign tongue, one that I couldn’t understand, may have seem confusing to me as a kid, but to my father they were a comforting recollection. Gurudev made my father feel at ease, and made me appreciate the sacrifices my father took to come to America.
– Prithviraj Talukdar