The mother sitting with her baby looked a little tired

In the town of Mymensingh, the afternoon air begins to soften. The clamor of the day settles briefly, and shadows start to stretch along the narrow alleys. In one such quiet corner, a mother sat, cradling her infant in her arms.

Her body leaned slightly forward, and in her eyes lingered a trace of fatigue — the kind shaped by daily life and the weight of raising a child. Neither, it seemed, could be carried lightly. Her patterned clothes and sun-warmed skin had blended effortlessly into the dust and breeze around her.

On her lap rested a baby too young to speak, moving chubby arms and legs in slow motion. Its gaze was fixed far into the distance, as if searching for something — or perhaps nothing at all. I couldn’t tell what lay beyond that silent stare.

Even when the mother noticed the camera, she didn’t react. She simply remained, calm and grounded, holding her child with quiet certainty. Around the two of them, time seemed to settle, like dust collecting in still air.

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