Here, summer officially ends on September 22. Soon afterward, the trees will begin to shed their leaves. For a long stretch of time, they will stand bare, looking almost helpless.

Here, I breathe fresh air and eat food free from adulteration. In my experience, sellers give you the correct weight. Shoes do not disappear from mosques or churches, burglars do not break into homes, and I do not worry about pickpockets. I have not encountered demands for bribes in offices. Doctors do not prescribe a long list of unnecessary tests; sometimes, they even give patients free samples of medicine. I do not see women being harassed on the streets. People respect authority and follow the rules. They are also careful about keeping time.

My life here is quite comfortable. Yet whenever I think of my beloved Dhaka, I become nostalgic. The potholes, the oppressive weather, the sweltering heat, the smell of sweat, the rubbish scattered everywhere and its stench, the mosquito bites, the calls and cries in the streets, the pushing and shoving, the overcrowded public transport—none of it truly bothers me when I visit Bangladesh. Instead, being there fills me with a joy that seems to surge through my blood.

Success means different things to different people. I am easily pleased. I have no extraordinary achievements to boast of, but I am deeply content with what I have. At this age, I no longer chase dreams. I do whatever I feel like doing, whenever I can. Perhaps that is what keeps me feeling fresh and alive. I believe that a healthy, lighthearted, free and independent mind is enough to make life beautiful.

There was a time when I had very little. I lived a modest life. Now, I feel good about what I have. My heart is full of happiness. What more could a person want?

I have neither a beard nor a moustache. That does not mean I am young; I simply choose not to grow them. I do not like making myself look old. Somehow, I feel that older people receive more pity than love. At least, that is how it seems to me. If I assume that my life will last 80 years, I still have another 16 years ahead of me. I do not believe that a long life spent entirely bedridden is fulfilling. I also refuse to dress in a way that makes me feel old. I cannot bear to see deprivation, and I do not like stinginess. Perhaps my outlook on life is what keeps my spirits light.

I deeply miss the more open Bangladesh I remember from the 1980s. Society did not seem as conservative to me then as it does today. I came to America after the 1990s began. There was so much I did not understand. How often I ordered the wrong food because I could not make out what someone was saying! Perhaps I ate both halal and non-halal food without knowing the difference. In this cold country, even a slight chill used to make me shiver. After all these years, I am still thoroughly Bengali.

September is now drawing to a close. The seasons are changing. The leaves are taking on new colours, and the old ones are beginning to fall. These are the rhythms of nature. They will carry on.

Today is Monday, the Jewish Day of Atonement. This evening, Jewish people will begin a 25-hour fast. Some take time away from work and spend the day in their places of worship. In the observances I see here, there are no loudspeakers, no commotion and no shouting—only prayer. They pray through the day and night, seeking forgiveness for their actions.

Something else caught my attention today. At the funerals I have witnessed here, people do not wail loudly, create a commotion or beat their chests. They accompany the deceased quietly to the funeral. Dressed in their finest clothes—suits and ties or gowns—they line up and place flowers one after another. The cars, too, stand in a long, orderly line.

I have lived in this country for more than two decades. Whether by day or at night, I have never felt afraid. Yet when I visit my beloved homeland, I somehow find myself shrinking with fear. No, it is not the fear of pickpockets. It is the fear of losing my life.

I am a law-abiding citizen. From my very first day in this country until now, I have held a deep respect for the law. Everything I have achieved has come through my own hard work. Looking for loopholes to gain an advantage is not something I understand. And despite everything, the same song still echoes in my heart: “My golden Bengal, I love you.”