Where it all started

“…Thank you for flying with us. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Chittagong. The local time is 11 am, and the temperature is around 26 degrees.”

26 degrees.The window is already misty, and studded with rain droplets. I can’t wait to get out and feel the breeze, that carries with it the smell of the seas. A pang of nostalgia kicks in; familiar sights, smells, and sounds occupy my senses…

When we were checking in for our flight the night before, we were apprehensive. As it turned out (and it often did), my mom, sister and I were the only women in our budget airplane. 

A special and reliable insider working in the industry told us that - air hostesses’ dread taking flights to Bangladesh - especially in budget airlines!  Where do I start? These intricately groomed, beautiful air hostesses are a rare sight for a Bangladeshi to see up front. They will, quiet rudely, stare when they want to. (A sight not very uncommon in Bangladesh – staring is a favorite habit of men, women, children, and elderly alike in the country).

There are however, some perks to being the only women in a flight as such. For one, we got to board before everyone else.  When we got on, the steward was quite surprised to know we spoke in English – “where is your seat ma’am?” – We just found out with a grimace, that we had different seats in the airplane – “Don’t worry!  You speak in English –so I need you all to be near the Emergency Exit. You’ll also get wider space to put your feet around.”  Bliss. 

It didn’t take long for us to doze off. Before we know it, daylight shines through, and we are landing in Chittagong. We are hungry and our bladders are full, but we dare not go in fear of what we will find. As soon as green patches of land appear through our tiny windows, the men are excited, and talk in loud voices. Seatbelts are unstrapped. Mobile phones are taken out, with calls being made to relatives announcing our arrival. Men stand up, ready to dash through the airplane door the moment the plane lands.

“SIT DOWN. THE AIRPLANE HASEN’T LANDED YET. SIT DOWN!  IF YOU DO NOT STRAP YOUR SEATBELTS, I WILL STOP THE AIRCRAFT.”

An exasperated steward has to speak out through the microphone. A man shouts out profanities in Bengali and yells, “How long will we sit? I was sitting all this time!  I’m in Bangladesh now, this is a free country!”

We are an incredibly irritable lot,so the crew is happy to see us off.There are also a few perks to landing in Bangladesh. We happen to know someone, who is a friend of someone important, who is a friend of someone…anyway, we don't have to stay long at the airport, all procedures are rushed through, and we leave early.

How many times have I been here? But I am still surprised.  On the way back home, we pass by ports and shipyards. As we pass by a large, green expanse, we see crowds of young, well uniformed students walking towards a building. My mom exclaims, “They must be from the Marine Academy- they look young- they are freshly enrolled.”

My mind takes me back to old black and white photos of my dad in the Marine Academy.

“It’s a long journey. First, you train for two years at the Academy. Then you join a ship as a Cadet. You must work your way up, learning all you can about being in a ship, and learning how to charter the seas…after years of experience can you be a Captain.”

How many ships has my dad been on? How many seas did he charter? What did he see? So many questions unanswered!

My mind holds on to the black and white photo. I like to think sometimes that I look like him. I always get this feeling that I am closer to him when I am here. Where he spent so much of his life, where he grew up, fell in love, sailed and travelled. So much to explore, to discover. And it all starts here, in the city where I was born.

Maisha (Life)

Maisha was shy and soft spoken.

I remember the last time we met. I complimented her silky, shiny hair. I remember asking her jolly faced, sweet mother,  to make her wear a sari for our Pohela Boishakh event. She was excited – saree- what kind? White and red, is it? Looking at Maisha lovingly, okay we’ll have to look for one. I’m happy I shared those few rare moments, as I watched Maisha smile and laugh..

The very same day we went out for ice cream, and saw a kitten on the road. It meowed for attention – it looked abandoned and desolate. Maisha called the kitten to her, and it followed as if in a dream. I don’t know why a scene from Cat woman flashed before my eyes, I remembered Halle Berry and her small act of kindness to a cat, that led her to be rewarded by super powers..

The kitten followed us around. Maisha treated it with love and kindness- it was determined to come home with us. With great difficulty, and a few comedic efforts, we managed to get the kitten out from under our car’s wheels, and safe from harm.

Just after a few weeks.  It happened in a flash- cold hard reality that I do know, I’ve seen it happen in front of me, why does it still surprise me? The illusion of immortality is embedded within our minds – we remember, and forget, we forget again when we are safely on the shore from the stormy ocean.

I had to see Maisha again – I knew I had work at university, I had tasks and assignments pending, but I knew it was time I needed to remember again.  I had to see where I would be going myself one day -

It was familiar – the same situation, the pain, and grief, the shock – but why was everyone crying? Was it because they would miss Maisha? I think they were scared – scared to see reality infront of them, the only event in our life with a probability of 1.0. We were crying because we knew we would go the same way. We were crying because uncertainty terrifies us. We were scared because we think we will be alone when it will happen..

The lady in black shushed us, while we huddled around Maisha. In Arabic, she said something decisively – we looked around for a translator – a soft spoken, Srilankan lady who looked to us and said, “Don’t worry, sister, she is now under the protection of Allah. Why are you worried?”

And I thought, what could be more beautiful than the Kingdom of Allah? To Allah we belong, to Him we will return.

➢ Surah Al-Maidah 5: Ayah 9

Verily, those who believe, and do deeds of righteousness, their Lord will guide them through their faith; under them will flow rivers in the Gardens of Delight (Paradise).

➢Surah Muhammad 47: Ayah 2

… And whosoever believes in Allah and performs righteous good deeds, He will expiate from him his sins, and will admit him to Gardens under which rivers flow(Paradise) to dwell therein forever; that will be the great success.

A lot of things can go wrong

A snotty, mucus-y world. A world where a lot of things can go wrong, where the grass is always greener on the other side, where the gravity of people’s opinions, and looks wear you down, pregnant pauses, messy dreams, minuscule beings, large schemes, in this world, where its easy to feel lost, to feel dead,

I choose spontaneity, because death will leave me to dust, it will be as real as this current moment, however insane it may sound – (I am enjoying homemade coffeecake and a cup of green tea comfortably). It will be  lifelike, dynamic even, when I leave my body and embark on a (perilous?) journey to the Hereafter. No, a lot of things can go wrong, but there’s nothing some good coffeecake can’t fix,or a warm sweater, or a box of tissues. I have forgotten the point of this blog post now.

A different time

I glance up to the ceiling, but I cannot see it properly. It is blurry. I faintly realize that I am under a mosquito net.

The wheezing fan rotates above me, trying to blow warm breeze this way. I look down at my 8 year old body, and realize that I have been changed into pajamas already. I wonder when that happened.

I wheel around and see my little sister. She sleeps peacefully. Beads of sweat mark her forehead. Yes, she’s feeling hot, but I think there is no any other place she’d rather be, at the moment.

I hear familiar sounds – the tinkling of rickshaw bells, distant shouts and calls of street mongers, and clinking of pots and pans from the kitchen. I get off the bed, because life is teeming. I get off the bed, because the world has already woken up…

The colorful patchwork of memories- that is my childhood in Chittagong, Bangladesh, remains treasured in my heart. Yet, holding on to them is like trying to hold onto sand in my palm, slipping away, little by little, as I try to reminisce…

Weekends spent in my grandparents’ house, a bungalow of sorts with a front yard boasting mango trees, wild plants and muddy terrains were a welcome relief to us, especially from our squeaky clean, routine bound weekdays. Here was a place we could ditch our freshly pressed school uniforms, our strict, nutritious diet, and run and play. Here was a home away from home, in Sadarghat road, so far away from modern hubs of Chittagong, so raw in its essence and teeming with life. Today, it shys away from the rest of the city – “tis nature’s jest to make old age look like a fool”, but in my mind’s eye, it will always be the colorful, full of life, packed home I remember it to be…