Letter from Boston
In a Dhaka state of mind
The love of my life, my soul mate, is in Dhaka now. She texted me as soon as she reached Dhakaeven before she had cleared immigration and ventured into the Baggage Claims area. Her text message was a sign that she was happy to be back, and the speed with which she updated me did not surprise me at all. I also surmised from her tone that she can't believe that she is in Dhaka, our favorite city, or worse, she might even have wanted to make me jealous about the fact that she was in Dhaka while I was stuck in frozen Boston. I felt a little painfor not being with her when she took her first breath on this visit to Dhaka, the air we breathed when we first met; for not being able to share her joy of being back in Dhaka, a city I love and know so well; accentuated by the gradual realization that she will go out of the airport and see Dhaka in its glory and feel its pulse, and enjoy the sights and sounds of Dhaka. All these happening without me by her side! Of not being there in Dhaka to partake of the pleasure she takes in being in Dhaka and losing herself in Dhaka.
I feel guilty too as soon as I suspect that my feeling of loss might be tinged with a little mix of jealousy and nostalgia. Dhaka in winter is lovely, the air pungent in the early morning with the smell of coal; the temperature is mild and less humid, and the sidewalks in Mohammedpur, Farm Gate, and Gulistan a sight to behold with hawkers sitting behind the baskets of winter fruits and vegetables. And I miss that. I miss it more now knowing that she is there to savor it all. It is like letting her monopolize Dhaka. I also notice in me a little bit of self-pity for missing out on all the fun; of being deprived of being in Dhaka at the same moment, walking side by side, or on the rickshaw together, to take in the all the chaos, bedlam, noise, smell, life, pulsations, or madness that we both love and have enjoyed for many years together: when we were young and dreamy-eyed, holding hands in the cinema hall or while taking a break at Mouli or Senorita; and later whenever we could return to Dhaka or meet up traveling on different trajectories.
She called me once she got out of the airport. "Dhaka is still as majestic" she yelled, her glee barely concealed as she tried overpower the horns and loudspeakers in the background. "Love the crowd, the smell of people, air, wood, smoke, petrol, fumes, spices, grass, wood, road tar …", she was waxing eloquent. That's supposed to be my style of talking! When did she start talking like that, I was trying to fathom? Where did all that excitement come from? Is it that Dhaka does something to you, and makes you go loony? While I was in rapt attention as she rambled on, I was also in my mind trying to divine whether she was trying to mimic me, or trying sincerely to please me by expressing the same feelings I have when I am in Dhaka. Or may be she is trying to make me regret my decision to stay put by rubbing in the fact that she was there and I was not, falling in love again, however briefly, with Dhaka while I was in a faraway land where there was apparent order, civilization, material comfort, what have you but does not have the same connection that we had with Dhaka.
I would go to Dhaka often in the past, but these days, my parents having passed awayalthough my mother only recentlythe forces that bound me to this city I was born in are apparently getting looser. However, as time passes by, I discover that many more ties to this city, mostly of the heart, are getting stronger. Don't they say that distance makes the heart grow fonder? If I may add, the longer one stays out of Dhaka, the yearning to go back also gets more palpable within oneself. And I guess if you add the final dimension, age, one could even say that as you get older, the more you miss Dhaka. So, it's the combined effect of the pulls of time, space, and age. For her, Dhaka still retains that old magic, the magnet if you like, because her parents, however, frail, are active and still in Dhaka. Their presence in Dhaka exerts a powerful gravitational pull, and she works hard to save time and money for the trip back home. But I know she, like me, is also drawn by our personal history in Dhaka, our mutual friends and shared memories which still bind us closely and hold us together, the cafes, bookstores, boat rides on Dhanmandi Lake, rickshaw rides, housie in Dhaka Club, Gulshan Lake, TSC, our strolls down Shahbagh Avenue, our many bonbhojons together, walk in Ramna Park, movie theatres, and all the other places where we sat down for a chat, sing, eat, or to dream together over the years, and even now when we conspire to be in Dhaka at the same time. I try to imagine what she is doing in Dhaka every moment that she is there. She called me from Bashundhara City, BRAC Inn, Ladies Club, Pink City, Agora, and almost all the places she's been on this very short trip! I secretly pray that she will be slowed down by the traffic jams!
I am starting to envy her so much now. I must concede that she'd told me in advance that she was planning to go to Dhaka this winter and asked me if I would travel. I refused her invitation since I did not want to take a slice of her time with her parents who see her only once a year, sometimes even less. Her father is in his eighties, and loves to see his daughter. Her mother dotes on her, and prepares for months in anticipation of her visit to Dhaka. I did not want to come between them, and their closeness. There is so much to see and do, so many tasks to accomplish before the return flight that I know my presence in Dhaka would only throw an extra equation to her already crazy schedule. Plus she had told me that she was enrolling in a new academic program, and needed to visit some educational institutions and NGOs during her visit: BRAC, NSU, elementary schools, charitable organizations, and art houses. Her trip has turned out to be almost like a "Chinese Soup", and I am not sure if I was also there, the soup would still taste as good. I'll just try to enjoy vicariously as she updates me from Dhaka, and wait for her to come back and give me more detailed reports. One that will lack the flavor of the on-the spot report, but will enable me to chart whom she met, what she saw, where she went, what she ate, what she bought, etc. Alas, I missed Dhaka this time, but her first-hand narrative is the next best thing to being there. After all, who said arm-chair travelling is not fun!
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