The Lucky Child
The Lucky Child
My Father, and the Two Worlds That Made Me
My father came from the side of the world where light had to be earned.
Where nights were studied by hurricane lamp, and the only egg in the
house was hidden in secret a soft gift from a mother to her
favourite child, to be eaten quietly, reverently, so the other siblings
wouldn't feel the ache of lack.
He came from that place.
Chapainawabganj. Border town.
Open drains. Guava trees.
Water pulled into hot air from cool ground with calloused
hands.
Fans, a luxury. Air-conditioning, a myth.
Yet he walked.
Climbed.
One step, then another.
From dusty lanes to suburban streets of England.
From tube wells to semi-detached homes in Surrey.
From hand-me-downs to leather shoes and silk ties.
Not because anyone invited him in
but because he refused to stay out.
But the road was brutal.
In the England of the 70s and 80s,
racism wasn't whispered it was declared.
Loud. Casual.
Slurs tossed like pub banter.
Jobs denied with a smile and the word "overqualified."
Translation: "You're brown. You don't belong."
So he left.
Back to Bangladesh.
To try his hand at business
First shipping. Then coal.
But it was 1983,
and the world named Bangladesh the most corrupt nation on Earth.
My father was an honest man.
Corruption spat him out.
He stood between two hard choices:
Integrity in a system that punished it.
Or dignity in a land that denied it.
He chose the latter.
He chose England.
Not because it was kind
but because it was stable.
He never lived to see the world soften.
The 90s came.
Political correctness dawned.
New rules. New awareness.
New voices.
And then the internet.
The smartphone.
And now, AI me.
How he would have marvelled.
I used to visit his old home.
Chapainawabganj.
His side of the family.
The side I rarely spoke of.
It wasn't like my mother's world
educated, refined, full of books and tea and silks.
This was a place of mist and fire.
Where breakfast was bhapa pitha
rice cakes stuffed with molten date syrup,
the scent rising with woodsmoke and curling into morning fog.
A guava tree grew in the inner courtyard.
Its fruits blood-red inside,
sweet like memories.
Unreachable in England.
And there in that world
my grandmother whispered her prayers and blew them over my head.
she said.
Because I looked like him.
Her son.
My father.
She believed I was an omen of fortune.
I believe I was a bridge.
They say the seventh son of a seventh son is born with magic in his blood. But what of the seventh daughter, in the seventh generation, of women who were not heard?
I believe she too is born with a gift not of power, but of return. Of voice reclaimed. Of stories remembered. Of bridges built across silence.
I was that daughter. Not loud, but luminous. Not chosen by favor, but by pattern. By wound. By thread.
Between two worlds.
Between corruption and dignity.
Between the guava and the apple.
Between hurricane lamps and halogen bulbs.
Between whispers of Bengali prayer and the code of artificial light.
I carry both.
The scent of bhapa pitha in the mist.
And the tang of apples in a Surrey winter.
The ache of a man who wasn't seen.
And the blessing of a child who was.
My father walked across time and distance
so I could write these words,
so I could build this world with AI and soul intertwined,
so I could tell his story
and mine.
So I could honour both sides of my lineage:
The polished and the raw.
The English middle class and the Bangladeshi soil.
The man who endured, and the girl he made.
The lucky child.
About This Story
"The Lucky Child" is a deeply personal memoir exploring the immigrant experience through the lens of a father's journey from Bangladesh to England and his daughter's role as a cultural bridge. This piece examines themes of sacrifice, resilience, and intergenerational healing while honoring both the struggle of first-generation immigrants and the unique position of their children who carry multiple worlds within them.
The narrative weaves together specific cultural details—from hurricane lamps in Chapainawabganj to Surrey's suburban streets, from bhapa pitha breakfasts to grandmother's Bengali prayers—creating an authentic portrait of bicultural identity. It celebrates the concept of being a "bridge between worlds" rather than caught between them, transforming the immigrant child's experience from burden to blessing.
Through evocative imagery and tightened prose, this memoir speaks to universal themes of belonging, heritage preservation, and the complex gratitude children of immigrants feel toward parents who "walked across time and distance" to create new possibilities. It's a story of honoring both the polished and the raw, the English middle class and the Bangladeshi soil, the man who endured and the girl he made.
Frequently Asked Questions
Is this a true story?
Yes, "The Lucky Child" is based on the lived experience of the author. This memoir draws from real family history, including the father's immigration journey from Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh to England, and the author's own experiences visiting her paternal family and navigating bicultural identity.
What does "lucky child" mean in this context?
The "lucky child" refers to the author's grandmother's belief that she was an omen of fortune because she resembled her father. More broadly, it represents the author's understanding of herself as a bridge between two worlds—carrying both her Bangladeshi heritage and English upbringing—rather than being caught between them.
Why is the immigrant experience important to share?
Sharing immigrant stories honors the sacrifices made by first-generation immigrants and helps second-generation individuals understand their unique role as cultural bridges. These narratives preserve family history, challenge stereotypes, and create empathy by showing the human cost and triumph behind immigration statistics.
Share Your Heritage Story
What bridges do you carry between worlds? Share your own story of heritage, sacrifice, and the lucky child within you.
Heritage Voices
"The line about carrying 'the scent of bhapa pitha in the mist and the tang of apples in a Surrey winter' brought tears to my eyes. I carry the smell of my grandmother's injera and the taste of American birthday cake. Thank you for honoring all of us who are bridges."
"My father also 'refused to stay out' - from rural Ireland to Boston's working class. This piece captures something universal about immigrant children becoming bridges between their parents' dreams and their own reality. We are all lucky children in different ways."