Chitter Cha-tter

One of the most beautiful buildings in Dhaka is the parliament building. 

It sits in Dhanmondi, an older section of Dhaka that I really like—to me, it feels like the Jamaica Plain of Dhaka, perhaps.  The buildings and the trees are older than in my section of town, there are some interesting cultural and arts institutions, and lot of fantastic, no frills restaurants tucked here and there.  I don’t know the neighborhood all that well yet, but have a fascination with it that drives me there whenever I can come up with the slightest reason.  Parliament building plus an invitation for dinner with my Bangla teacher are more than sufficient to get me down there on this day.

I’ve ridden past it many times, but never gone onto the grounds.   Ruthie offers the perfect excuse for me to “play” tourist.  I’ve been working on a list of things to tick off while she’s here and this is at the very top.

When the weather is nice on a Friday, everyone flocks to the parks.  Today is no exception.  Ruthie gets a taste of the intense curiosity and friendliness that foreigners encounter here on a constant basis.  All types of foods are for sale, often by roaming venders—freshly peeled cucumbers, ice cream, tea, popcorn, cotton candy—but we’re more interested in views of the architecture and the beautiful flowers on the krishnochuro trees. 

I’ve gotten relatively used to the hustle, and energized by the fact that I have two friends with me to face (and make snarky comments about) the madness, it’s rolling off my back today.  Also, the presence of a male (and one who speaks Bangla at that), means that I’m pretty much off the hook—people will pester him with questions, requests for pictures, etc. rather than me directly.  He’s a little annoyed that many assume he’s our guide.  I assure him that since he doesn’t even know the architect or what year the building was built, we clearly didn’t bring him for that reason (not sure that he sees the humor in it as I do).  One little boy comes up to Ruthie and me though and says, “I can speak English.”  I say, “Ok. What?”  He says, “Madam, please give me five monies.”  “Anything else?”  “M’am, I am so hungry.”  I ask, “How old are you?” and he stares at me, uncomprehending.   His vocabulary is fairly specific I see.

We have success in viewing the Parliament from two out of the three sides we attempt.  On one side, the guard peers in the car, sees foreigners, and announces that foreigners are not allowed inside.  He invites Saad to speak with him in private and says he’ll let us in, for some money that goes in his pocket.  A lot of civil servants make very little money, and this is common practice.  Not that it makes it any less frustrating.  We drive onwards to the other side, which is covered with young people sitting around, wasting time, like teenagers everywhere in the world do.

Speaking of sitting around wasting time, we’ve got a little hour an hour before we’re due at my Bangla professor’s house for dinner.  We cruise through Dhanmondi, looking for somewhere to get a drink or something while we pass the time.  I recognize this road; I’d taken a rickshaw here with some other friends (Hezzy and LIanna) just a few weeks ago.  One place on our right, Cha Bar (“cha” is tea in Bangla), was a place that Hezzy had recommended for fuska, a typical tea dish that he’s obsessed with.  So I suggest we stop there; one of those rare times when I get to play the expert on the city (clearly if I were to ever develop one area of expertise on Dhaka, it’d be on the food scene).  We are still stuffed from lunch, so settle on drinks.  I decide to try the green mango juice, which has just recently come into season.  I wasn’t really sure what it would taste like, but it’s pretty hard to mess up mango.

Kids, it is possible that I discovered on my first try the best green mango juice in Dhaka.  It is delicious!  It was freshly made and had enough chunks of mango to make even “extra pulp” orange juice seem a little anemic.  It was tangy and had a faint hint of chili, just enough spice to make you want to take just one more sip.  Served with a full glass of ice, it was just about perfect.  I’m worried that no other green mango juice will ever live up to this standard, but I am content to continue trying, and perhaps go back to Cha Bar (yet another excuse to go to Dhanmondi!) if I don’t have good luck in the Gulshan/Banani area.