Bring it on, Dhaka

Dhaka and I are in the throes of a torrid love affair.  It’s a jealous and needy lover, the kind that constantly tests the bounds of my feelings and patience.  Quick to pick up on my vulnerabilities, publicly mock me when it observes my eyes wandering, or a smirk at some inside joke rising on my face.   And yet, in those moments when it finally gives me the peace that I’ve been waiting for, I find myself missing that sense of being owned and overwhelmed by its presence.

Somewhere in the last two months, I realized that I didn’t just like the work here, but I liked being here.  For reasons that are difficult to articulate.  Reading the opening to Khushwant Singh’s novel about Delhi hit home for me: he describes the ugliness and grossness that immediately confronts you in the city—here, the guys squatting to urinate on the side of the road, the constant sound of people hawking up phlegm, the disease and squalid poverty that’s everywhere, but writes, with apparent tenderness, that for things to appear different, you must “cultivate a sense of belonging.”  And once I realized that I truly liked Dhaka, it freed me from having to keep up the appearances of trying to like it, and let me begin to settle into it.  The way that it takes a few weeks for a new relationship to settle in before you really start acting like yourself.  So since I’ve accepted Dhaka, I’m slowly opening myself up to it and together we are figuring out where we will each compromise to make this romance more than just a brief affair.

In Boston, I didn’t feel like I have a responsibility to like the place.  In fact I spent many years there without particularly caring for it.  But here, when I meet someone, one of my first questions is “how do you like living here?” And brace myself for the answer, because it essentially will determine whether I make an effort for the rest of the conversation.  The “how much” and the “why’s”  don’t matter; I can’t articulate it in a meaningful way, so wouldn’t expect it from anyone else.  But when riding in the rain, trying to huddle up under the leaky brim of a rickshaw, dressed in party clothes and praying that the rain potentially washes off the grimy lines left by earlier walk in flip flops, I’m laughing at myself and how I’d explain this to anyone else, and I have no doubts that I’m where I want to be.     Simultaneously, I find myself complaining about all sorts of things much more than I did a month ago; do we only nag those that we love?  Is trying to fix someone a sign of caring?  The words I wish I knew in Bangla that I’d like to unleash on some of many leering guys on the street would likely not be coated with sugar nor have any love!  But I think it’s indicative that I’m letting the city get under my skin.  Only from there can these interactions put a bee in my bonnet!

These days, I walk out the door now with a defiant “this is who I am and you not just accept me, you will love me” attitude to face the city.  Prepared for small battles at every turn.  And yet, regardless of my level of preparation, I’m constantly surprised.  Today I set out in jeans and a tank top, aware that my outfit would raise eyebrows but willing to accept that cost, as it’s a humid 85 degrees and that’s kind of my signature gear.  This past week, I’ve taken to nighttime wandering; the warm breeze and quietness are seductive after the chaos and heat of traffic that’s relentless in the day.  The empty streets seem so wide, so empty.  I walk in the middle of them because I can.  Last night, my roamings turned into a ride in a rickshaw, and I went past “Ladies Park,” which is supposedly a nice place to run.  This morning, I wanted to figure out how to get there on foot, so I packed a book for the coffee shop and decided I’d loop through the park, which was in the same general direction, on my way there.  I like the park.  It’s not beautiful in a conventional sense, but in the sense that a well-loved home as a charm as powerful as an architectural gem to those that look for those types of details.  I see a woman in a hijab carrying two red roses, walking behind a man, and wonder what their relationship is like.  Last night at the party, I discovered a student from Dhaka University who plays the guitar and harmonica beautifully.  One of the songs we ended up performing was “You’ve got to hide your love away.”  I find myself humming it as I walk around the park, noting that all the benches seem to be occupied by couples, often the man with his arm around the woman, sitting quietly.  There are few other public places I’ve seen this level of affection, so I do another lap to take in a bit more of it, glad that I get to bear witness to this side of life here in some small way.  I see a few guys sitting around with a guitar.  I’m tempted to walk over and see if they’ll play something I can sing to, but something stops me, and instead of park myself at the bench that’s about 20 feet away so I can listen first.  A group of young girls come by and despite my protests that I speak no bangla, they ask me a battery of questions in Bangla and I fumble to provide some basic information.  I’ve no sooner pulled out my book when the guy with the guitar comes over.  He tries to hand it to me.  “I can’t play,” I say, “Can you?”  “No,” he says.  Well that settles that.  He retreats back to his friends, reporting on our conversation.  I settle back into my book.  My boss lent Delhi: a novel to me, and as a result, it’s been knocked up to the top of heap.  One of the main characters is a commercial sex worker, described as being neither complete male or female.  My research in India last year introduced me to hijiras (or hijda as they are spelled in this book); I think that the same term applies to biological males that identify as women and choose to enter the hijira communities, in which many take up sex work.  I’m on page 5 when I hear a husky voice say, “hello,” and look up to an attractive woman dressed in a sari, well made up but with distinctly masculine features.  She tells me her name, that she was a man but is “gay” (I don’t dare ask if she’s hijira since I don’t actually understand the term’s entire connation), that she’s homeless, and she wants me to give her some money.  I’m too shocked by the coincidence in meeting the character in the book to respond immediately, but find my wherewithal and decline as politely as I can, and she wanders off.    I return to my book, still a little unnerved by the parallel, and within a few minutes, a man walks up to me.  He tells me his name, that he’s Bangladeshi, and offers me friendship.  I say no.  He asks, “Your country?”  “America,” I reply, resigned to completely the conversation but only with cool politeness and not any contact information.  He pauses, and then says, “I want green card.”  I laugh in spite of my best effort to contain it.  Subtlety is overrated.  I nod and return to my book.  He asks for me mobile number, I say no, he asks why and I attempt one of those side head nods that I feel like people give me when they don’t want to answer my question for whatever reason.  It works!  He says goodbye and walks away.  I sit undisturbed for the better part of an hour, occasionally laughing silently at the sheer tenacity of the guys with the guitar, since they continue to strum (through not making an chord; left hand not in use) and just sing whatever song they want to, sometimes with the accompaniment of the ring tones on their various cell phones.  Or when a new repetitive sound appears; a few people are bathing and washing clothes in the lake, smacking the cloth against a rock.  In some weird way, the park feels familiar; it feels like the park that was at the end of my block in Cambridge.  I enjoy it the same way, watching quotidian activities, making up stories about the lives of perfect strangers, content to observe from outside.  Eventually thirst distracts me, and I grab my bag and head to a coffee shop nearby.  I’ve found one that sits on the second floor and has a balcony (really for the smoking crowd) that looks out onto a small, quiet-ish street.  I order a lemon iced tea and appreciate that Bengalis and North Carolinians seem to be in agreement on the proper proportions of sugar in tea.  Not everything in Dhaka needs fixing by my standards. 

Rumi wrote, “Love comes with a knife, not with some shy question.”   I appreciate that sentiment, and Dhaka fulfills in with gusto.  Life here will reel me in, but I’m starting to think it won’t spit me out.  I’m going to figure out how to ride these waves if it kills me.  And love every second of the battle.

Speaking of battles, pick-up basketball at the American club starts in 15 minutes.  Bring it, Mr. Ambassador.