The Narratives – Mohamed Miah

When I was a little boy, somewhere between the ages of four and seven, my curiosity knew no bounds. Growing up in a large house in Wood Green during the holidays, was like living in a treasure trove. Every drawer, every cupboard, every hidden corner seemed to hold unknown wonders just waiting to be discovered. My imagination ran wild—I truly believed there might be treasures under the floorboards or secrets hidden within the walls.

Among my most exciting finds were the jars and drawers of my cousins, brimming with pennies and pound coins. To me, these were riches beyond measure, treasures that sparkled with mystery and value. Sometimes, there were even keys—ordinary to most but magical in my young mind, promising entry to another realm or kingdom. Naturally, I felt it my duty to “safeguard” these treasures, slipping them into my pockets or tucking them away under floorboards for future adventures.

But my adventures came at a cost. My Suto Bhai, sharp as a hawk even back then, was always one step ahead of me. Nothing ever escaped his notice. One day, during one of my “expeditions,” I ventured into his room, lured by the possibility of hidden treasures. Little did I know, this was no ordinary room—it was a trap.

As soon as I stepped inside, the door slammed shut from the outside. I froze. Then, suddenly, a skull in his cabinet lit up, and the sound of maniacal laughter filled the room. I was petrified. My tiny heart raced, and I burst into tears, shouting for my mum. All the while, Suto Bhai stood outside the door, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Eventually, my mum came to my rescue, consoling her terrified son. From that day forward, I learned a valuable lesson: never go into Suto Bhai’s room!

This became one of his favorite stories to retell, and every time he did, he laughed as if it had just happened. Over the years, I outgrew my treasure-hunting days, but the memory of that skull trap stayed with me.

Years later, when he had his daughter, the tables turned in a playful way. One day, just for a laugh, I made her cry. Suto Bhai, ever the protective father, pleaded with me, “Don’t make her cry, please!” With a cheeky grin, I replied, “This is revenge for those times when you scared me.” We both laughed, sharing a moment of nostalgia and love.

One thing about Suto Bhai is that even if you think you’ve gotten away with something, in truth, he’s just biding his time. His awareness is unmatched, and his humor always leaves an impression.

Suto Bhai, I love you. Thank you for the lessons, the laughter, and the memories.