It was raining since morning. I had walked home from school drenched and, having eaten my lunch, was lying on the charpoy under the thatched roof of our railway quarter in Tiger Pass, Chittagong. I loved the rain. The man at the small tea house in Deevan Haat across the railway tracks put the record on his gramophone and K.L. Saigol’s voice drifted in with the rain -
“Aye katib-e-taqdir mujhe itna bata de, keon mujh se khafa hai tu, kya maene kia hai.” A strange sensation – was it eleation, …