Desicritics

Bangladesh Diary: The Mechanics of Arranged Marriages

Andrew Morris — Sun, 15 Apr 2007 13:29:14 EDT

Dear reader, here's this week's questionnaire.

Delete as appropriate: are you
a) happily married
b) happily divorced
c) happily single
d) unhappily any of the above
e) on the lookout
f) on the rebound
g) unsure
h) none of the above?

Whatever your current position, what we back home all no doubt share, whatever generation we belong to, is the unquestioning conviction that our choice of life partner was/is purely our own to make, regardless of whether it all ends in fairy tale happilyeverafterness or in tears. So how would you feel if your parents had simply informed you one fine morning that you were to marry someone they had chosen for you?

Let's take a typical example of what happens here. A father, let's call him Miah, sets out in search of a wife for his son. He visits Riazul, an old friend, whose daughter has a similar social and educational level. Together they more or less seal the deal, pending agreement from the couple themselves. Miah's son has a good education, grooming and prospects, so let's disregard for now the fact that his teeth are terrible and he is losing his hair. Riazul's daughter will just have to live with that...

The simplest difference between attitudes to marriage in our two cultures is that we expect to fall in love first and then get married (if at all). The idea of someone choosing for us is pretty inconceivable - surely no one else could possibly know what we wanted. We are simply too jealous of our rights. But here, you are married off to someone and then fall in love. My friend R. patiently explains what is of course obvious to her. "Perhaps the difference is really this - that you are choosing someone for yourself, whereas we are choosing someone for our family." An interesting insight, but at the same time some hurdle. How many of our partners would have passed this stringent family test?

Ever since Plato we have grown up with the clear notion that there is one person out there who is ideal for us - a soul-mate who will make us happy in every way. Every film, advert, and a thousand pop songs encourage this chimera, from our earliest teenage years on. You're the one that I want. And this seems the only way to us. But of course friends here only have to point to the divorce rate in the West as easy proof that all is not always well in the shining land of Love Marriages either.

What's more, I respect and admire the marriages I have seen here - in the majority of cases this whole system seems simply to work. It's just a bit difficult to imagine selling this idea back home...

For a start there's the way our happy couple are introduced to each other here, in a living room at home, under the watchful eye of their entire families. Not much of an icebreaker as situations go - although these days the more daring may ask for at least an evening alone, or perhaps with a discreet chaperone. Either way they have to decide more or less on the basis of this one encounter whether to accept each other for ever.

The questions that might spring to our Western minds don't really apply here. For example, how to know after a single awkward evening whether she will sing tunelessly and gratingly every morning for the next forty years? Whether he will drop his socks on the floor or snore in bed? It's a longer-term investment here - the questions revolve more around security, finance and children - can this person care for us and be solid enough to offer companionship for the rest of our days? But still, it must be quite a tough call to look at this stranger across the table and realise that this is it. A hubby's not for Christmas, he's for life...

On top of this lack of choice, there's the extra burden of perfection placed on the woman. Consider the idea (still common in poor rural areas) of a whole delegation of the bridegroom-to-be's family turning up at the potential bride's house, to be entertained with a lavish meal. The hapless girl is then invited into the room to stand in front of this examining committee. The length of her hair, the way she speaks, the pallor of her complexion, and even the way she walks -all these are fair game for these exacting judges. Somehow I can't imagine my own dear wife, or any other woman I know for that matter, submitting to this sort of inspection, like a prize pumpkin at a country fair...

However, young people's own voices are being heard more these days in Bangladesh - a son or daughter who is very unhappy at the prospect before them can at least make their feelings known. Things are moving quickly in the middle classes and in the cities, and people are even beginning to set more store by Bollywood notions of romance, with love marriages on the increase. And the whole commercialism of February 14th is now taking off in a big way, with Hallmark swinging into action with cutesy cards and balloons every year.

It certainly wasn't always this way: all my female colleagues - mostly the same age as me - tell me they simply had to defer to their fathers' greater judgement. And then, over the years, began the process of sinking slowly into a love comfy as bedroom slippers, and as familiar, solid and undemanding as the furniture in your living room.

But all things change. A look back at the curtain-twitching Britain of the 50s is enough to suggest that attitudes to divorce, single parenthood, sexuality and sex have all changed hugely in these few decades. Will the same revolution happen here after centuries of custom? Will these venerable traditions also disappear, in years to come, under a deluge of Valentine's hearts and love songs? And should this be celebrated or lamented?

Eyes Wide Open and Sleepless in Dhaka

Andrew Morris — Wed, 11 Apr 2007 00:06:44 EDT

insomnia noun habitual sleeplessness; inability to sleep.
DERIVATIVES insomniac noun & adjective
ORIGIN early 17th cent.: from Latin, from insomnis 'sleepless,' from in- (expressing negation) + somnus 'sleep.'

So my dictionary informs me. What, did people never have this problem before the 17th century? It's certainly a part of the 21st. And there are times in your correspondent's life where he would win a gold medal at an Insomniacs' Convention.

A typical night goes like this: I fall into bed at about midnight, dog tired. I am already asleep mid-fall, and immediately the darkness swims around me like a silent sea. Bliss for a while. But then it happens. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, wakefulness jars me and my eyes are wide open, staring into the glaucous night, taking in the velvety silence of another dead day. A gnawing feeling begins to eat away at me, aided by the usual melancholy clues. It's dark as hell - not even a sliver of light yet.

There may be the silken sound of the azan - in which case I know I'm lucky and have lasted a few hours down in those depths. But as often as not, there is not even that consolation. The minaret is silent, the muezzin sleeps: you're all alone, my friend. My hand fumbles familiarly past obstinate folds of mosquito netting and reaches for the illumination button on my alarm clock. Please God, not again. But the bright numbers have no mercy. Time waits for no man, but it hangs around quite a bit for me. It is still only 2.00 am, and another day in the insomniac's calendar has begun. Only 22 more hours therefore until I sleep. And this state of affairs will last for days, sometimes weeks. Then one fine day, out of the blue (the black?), the curtain lifts, the forgotten sleep patterns I used to know and love take over once again, and I revert to my typical middle-aged habits, the peaceable afternoon snooze, the gentle lulling of easy slumber, and the pure joy of actually being jolted out of sleep by the sound of an alarm clock, as silvery morning light seeps into the room.

***

Doubtless down in the archives of my mind there is something stimulating this. Various websites suggest a whole variety of causes. I try them on for size, but leave them all in the changing room: none of them seems to fit. Wikipedia, for example, offers up the following: "It is often caused by fear, stress, anxiety, medications, herbs, caffeine, depression or sometimes for no apparent reason." I think I'll settle for the latter: I'm not stressed, fearful or anxious. Or at least I don't think I am. The only stress in my life is usually someone blasting their horn behind me as we drive to work. Don't do herbs. Not too much coffee either. Not depressed - actually I'm quite a jolly chap, a little sunbeam most of the time. But it goes on. "An overactive mind or physical pain may also be causes." Aha, now we are getting somewhere: I plead guilty to an overactive mind, but am not sure what to do about it. With fundraising, music and writing there's a lot happening at the moment, all of it exciting. Perhaps the only cure lies in a lobotomy.

The entry concludes "Finding the underlying cause of insomnia is usually necessary to cure it." Oh thanks guys, that's easy then. Anyone know a good therapist? Someone who'll tell me it's all because of an incident with a pineapple when I was thirteen and a half?

But is insomnia entirely a bad thing? In some ways, no. It is, for example, only 4.29 am as I write this, so there's certainly more you can pack into a day if you leave out the sleep part. Besides, it's a good time for writing, this graveyard slot where nothing moves except the breeze through the treetops, and there are no sounds apart from the occasional whistles of chowkidars and the chirruping of early birds.

It doesn't seem to have much of a knock-on effect on my life either. Once I spoke to a doctor about it and she fired off a volley of questions. Work performance affected? Mood swings? Did I do things like walk into doors? No, no and no. She packed me off and told me not to worry. She also reassured me that you can bank hours in which you are deprived of sleep, and reclaim them later. It's a nice thought: if she's right there's going to be a whole week in October in which I don't wake up at all.

But there can be odd instances too when you suddenly realise you need to do something about it. For example, during my Bangla lesson this week where I actually fell asleep during one of my own sentences. In my defence, it was a particularly complex grammatical structure I was trying to manipulate. Still, I hope I caused no offence to my lovely teacher. Or the other day when I took a nap, woke up to see the alarm said 7.00 and went downstairs in a panic, thinking I'd miss the minibus to work. I ate my breakfast, went upstairs for a shave, and then realised it was in fact evening. No, please don't send in the men in white coats - it was an isolated incident, I promise.

A weird enough one, however, to convince me to look again at ways of getting round the problem. Back to the internet. One site offers 41 simple tips, ranging from the screamingly obvious to the downright barmy. Yes, I could try having a massage, drinking warm milk. I could even, at a push, give up coffee. But none of this explains why I sleep like a dead man during other times of the year, despite sipping large cups of purest Italian caffeine.

Another suggestion is "take a warm bath," but I guess first I'd have to buy a bath, so that's out. It goes on: "Wiggle your toes"; "Visualise something boring". Well, wiggling your toes is pretty boring so that's two birds with one stone, but I wiggle away in vain. Alternatively "visualise something peaceful". I try, honestly I try. I think of Japanese raked gardens, of meditation, of serenely smiling statues of the Buddha. But, like a petulant puppy, my mind has scented the open space and scampered off already, disappearing into the distance before I can run after it and put it on a leash. "Smoke yourself to sleep". Sorry? I don't smoke anyway, and I certainly wouldn't want to smoke myself even if I did. "Yawning; counting sheep; facing south not north". All tried and found useless. And then, the final helpful piece of advice reads simply: "Don't think".

If only, my dear readers, if only...

The sole advice I can really offer myself is not to worry about it. Like all things, it comes and goes. It passes. All I can ask is that if you see me falling asleep at a café, on a rickshaw or even at my desk (hope my boss doesn't read this), you have some mercy and do not disturb. You may even want to fish out a blanket and tuck me in the way my mother used to do when I was four: the reassuring hand on my shoulder, the soft voice in the shadowy darkness, the lilting lullaby.

OK, it's now 4.49. Time for bed I think, while it's still crow-black out there. Another try, and with any luck this time I'll wake to see the amber sun hovering, a lozenge of early golden light shimmering on the floor under the window, and the promise of a new day.

Bangladesh Diary: A Weekend Away (Part Two)

Andrew Morris — Sun, 17 Dec 2006 07:10:40 EST

Apologies. Didn't mean to leave you feeling sorry for me. What I should have added is that the sudden descent of sadness (as well as the surge of elation) on the road is always fleeting and evanescent. But then, you knew that all along.

I somehow manage to shake off the early gloom despite a melancholy breakfast of rubbery fried eggs, sweetened bread (not recommended) and rather bitter brown coffee. I've had better, but by the time I am out on the dusty road into town, rolling along in the morning breeze, my spirits are as high as crows again.

Today will be a day full of house visits (one which will see me return home exhausted at 10.30pm). Bangladesh is, after all, about people. The countryside can be stunning but there isn't a whole lot to look at in the towns - the architecture is pretty undistinguished, there is concrete everywhere and the roads are honking and congested. The true wealth of the country lies in its incredible welcomes, its friendliness, and its humanity. So if you don't want to get to know the people, you'd perhaps be better off in Bangkok. Or Basingstoke.

The rickshaw hits the old town of Rajshahi and we ply down narrow winding streets. The rollers on shop fronts clatter as they are raised to greet the morning. The heat is already cranking up now. In a dingy barber's shop a man patiently raises his arm while the barber shaves his armpit. A woman in a small shack at the roadside brews some tea for the men squatting around. There are loud voices and laughter.

My first port of call is J, who was our cook when we lived here. She lives in the Mission, with its tidy little church and its tended lawns. Being Christian, the people call out Namaskar, a greeting they share with Hindus and Buddhists as an alternative to Salaam aleikum. Another one of Bangladesh's minorities, the Santali people were blessed (cursed?) by the early arrival of missionaries, and have ever since been a tiny Christian community, a small island in this religious ocean, their high voices ringing out as they sing their Sunday hymns each week.

J, who is divorced, lives with her family in a small neat compound, four rooms surrounding a little yard. There are bales of hay, earthenware cooking pots, a flyblown fluorescent light. The sun is warm on my face and arms as we sit and talk. She is an outstanding cook, but at the moment is once again out of work as the Swiss natural resources expert she worked for has now moved on. She keeps an eye out for the next foreigners to move in - I promise to look out for her in Dhaka too. Will she mind moving away from this family hearth? "Not at all - first you have to earn, then you can enjoy your family..."

A duty call follows. When we lived here in the 90s, one of our team was H. An elderly, wiry man with penetrating eyes, he at first captivated us with his idiosyncratic way of speaking - cryptic pronouncements phrased in strange dated English. He would begin each new conversation with, "A thought occurs to me. May I express it?" and would signal his assent each time by gravely intoning "Exactly so." Despite auspicious beginnings, though, our relationship rolled gently downhill over the two years: differences of opinion about education, an inability on his part to accept the contributions of his younger colleagues, and an inability on our part to pass over these bright youngsters. No doubt in his eyes we were not deferential enough to his obvious seniority. And so we left on rather unsatisfactory terms. Nothing was ever said, but it was clear there were bruises on both sides.

I am therefore very surprised to learn that this conservative, traditional man has now become the Principal of the most important college in Rajshahi. On an impulse, I decide to pay him a visit and try and leave on better terms than six years ago. Perhaps what I am seeking is closure? I pop my head round the door, and there he is, at his big desk with requisite gold box of tissues and plastic pen holder, surrounded by visiting dignitaries, and looking supremely at home. Like all important officials here, he has a newspaper open in front of him and a towel draped over the back of his chair. Khaleda Zia smiles benignly down from her picture high above, as she does from every office wall in the country. If H is at all displeased to see me, he hides it remarkably well. There is a momentary questioning flicker in his eyes, but then he leaps up to greet me.

In the animated conversation that follows I have just enough time to offer a quiet explanation for my visit, and then an apology that we left things in that way. I receive another one of his piercing stares, followed by the merest suggestion of an acknowledging smile, before his attention is distracted by a hundred papers in need of signing, and a dozen hovering people wanting a word. A few minutes later we sweep out into the campus, to show the visitors around. He guides my arm gently as we walk, the students parting deferentially in front of us and saluting him. On the way, I am impressed by the relaxed way in which he speaks to people, from staff to students, and the easy way in which they smile in his presence. This is not always the way with those in authority here, and I am once again forced to rethink my perceptions of this enigmatic man.

The campus itself is from the 1860s - the same decade as my house back in Clifton, in the heyday of Empire. Still elegant and spacious, it is grand from the outside, with wide lawns and delicately wrought wooden lattice work on the balconies. Inside, though, in the dimly-lit pale blue corridors there is more of a musty atmosphere, and rotting buff files teeter in dust-filled rooms. Clerks beaver away in the gloom. Some of them look like they too arrived in the 1860s and simply forgot to leave. Or perhaps I am merely seeing ghosts.

Soon it is time to go. I feel relieved that H has been quite gracious, and it seems we are back on good terms. He asks me to sign his visitors' book, so I wait my turn after the moustachioed and rather Pompous Man next to me. PM takes up his pen and begins to write a florid and lengthy message. Over his shoulder I glimpse the words 'utmost effort and sincerity', 'left an indelible stamp on me', 'an inestimable privilege', 'sagacious service to the nation'. Dickens clearly lives on in this small corner of Rajshahi. Then, for the benefit of everyone sitting around, he proceeds to read his message out, in a booming voice. He is obviously well pleased with his penmanship.

For my part I write a more personal message, about how pleased I am to rekindle this friendship, and how relieved I am to be able to leave with a peaceful mind. H reads it intently and then nods in grave silence, his eyes once more meeting and searching mine for a moment. There is a brief unspoken acknowledgement. Not to be outdone though, Pompous Man takes the book off H. and then boomingly proceeds to read out my message too. I am mortified, but not to worry, PM soon gets tired of my inferior scribbling, and skips the personal part at the end. Instead he decides to read out his own again. No one is listening any more, but his voice sails through the room, making the curtains billow and the terrified geckoes scurry.

More visits follow all day - for each one I buy sweets, and then am force-fed copiously as we sit and talk about old friends and old times, until it is at last nightfall, and I heave my body, like a ball and chain, back to my hotel. I can face no more food for a week at least.

The fun over, I am up once again with the sunrise, and off to the bus station for the hurtling journey back to what is now my home, across the diaphanous green countryside towards the beckoning capital.

A Weekend Away: Part One

Bangladesh Diary: A Weekend Away (Part One)

Andrew Morris — Mon, 11 Dec 2006 04:58:39 EST

I am feeling particularly adventurous today. Up with the dawn and off to the bus station. It's a national holiday on Sunday, giving us a long weekend, and I have decided to revisit Rajshahi, where we first lived. The air is fresh this early morning, and I am carrying my weekend things in a small bag. Surely this, at last, is proof of my integration. Only outsiders carry big bags, I have decided. Once, in Africa, a passing nomad looked at the sizeable briefcase I carried to class and asked if I was going away for a month. But not any more, oh no.

I arrive at the ticket office in good time to catch the little feeder bus out to the station on the outskirts. There are lots of people there. They all have small bags. The shuttle bus comes along and I hop nimbly on. Good grief, I am pleased with myself - here I am leaping on and off local buses in the sunrise, with my small bag. If only you folks reading this could all see me.

It is only when I reach the bus station itself that the clerk looks at my ticket and informs me calmly that I have hopped on the wrong shuttle bus and am on the opposite side of town from where I ought to be.

Never fear, there are still forty-five minutes to go, still time to counteract this, ahem, minor setback. I jump into a taxi and ask the driver how long it would take to get to the other station. 'Forty-five minutes. On a good day'. For once I am actually urging the driver to drive faster. He, in turn, needs no further encouragement, and so we hare across town, through impossible gaps, collecting a few scrapes to prove our valour, like notches on a weapon. But he is true to his word, and I arrive at the Green Line office with three minutes to spare. It takes a while for my heart to stop knocking - well after the bus has eased its way on to the open road.

A round man sits down next to me and stretches out a hand. "As we are travelling together, should we not get to know each other?" Suddenly years of painstakingly avoiding travel talk crumble under this simple and benevolent logic, and we chat for a while. The bus eats up the miles, and I settle down among the lime green curtains and wine-coloured velour seats. The call to prayer rings out from the speakers, and floats oddly among the chords of the song in my headphones. To either side, a brilliant green carpet of paddy. Lone farmers thigh-deep in the water: a woman, motionless, holding a cow. We pass a young couple on a motorbike, her arm sinuously round his waist. Cyclists wobble along the village paths, luminous in the silver early mist.

Now and again a bustling township: a melee of rickshaws, watermelon sellers, shouts and the blasts of the horn as the bus battles through. A man lifts a huge and battered tin pot on to his head and begins to walk, spitting a powerful jet of red betel juice onto the ground. Snack wallahs selling samosas and cucumbers shout up to the bus, taking advantage of our momentary stasis. But then we ease beyond them and plunge back into the palm-crowded countryside. Sudden glimpses of purple flowers in a field - the villages blurry in the distance. Above us the skies brighten and expand. I am, for a moment, indescribably content.

Life out here is slower - there are more people sitting, taking things in. But this apparent rural idyll masks a harsh life, under the pitiless sun. A more conservative and devout life too - here there are far more veils and more beards to be seen

The hours pass, and eventually, lulled by sleep, we roll into Rajshahi. It's a laid-back, green and elegant provincial town, dotted with old British buildings. There are hardly any cars and the Padma (known elsewhere as the Ganges) flows by, broad and lazy as the Mississippi.

Getting down from the bus there is no need to head straight for the hotel. I make first for P's house - he was the guard at the college where we worked - bearing gifts of milky sweets. Sitting in his tiny slum, I am fussed over and smiled at, once they have got over their surprise that I am no longer the chubby-cheeked person they knew. "Are you ill?" P. asks with genuine concern. Here of course you are only considered well if your belly bulges. Slim people are worrisome - like ravenous ghosts.

I look around this small room in which three grown people (their 10-year-old daughter I once knew has blossomed into a 16-year old young woman) spend their entire lives. There is evidence all round of the careful systems of managing life in a confined space. Up above there are cooking pots. Bedclothes for the one double bed shared between three (no parental intimacy here) are folded neatly in the dresser. Dog-eared books are stacked up on the table which serves for food, study and storage. For decoration there are a hundred bright little trinkets, and photos, torn from a magazine, of Aysharawya, the beautiful film-star queen of Bollywood. A faded poster of Tower Bridge nestles incongruously next to a gaudy portrayal of Mecca's main square. An old-fashioned square clock on the wall has stopped at 10.30, although we are now early in the afternoon.

P. has not worked in the last few years, and so sits at home, feeling sorry for himself. His long-suffering wife claps her eyes heavenwards when he says to me he will come to Dhaka to see me and find work. "Him? He'll never go anywhere, just you see." By contrast, their daughter has just sat her exams and has a rosier outlook. Maybe she will break free from this corrugated-iron confinement.

Later that day I go to the hotel and catch up on some sleep. I am struck, there on the outskirts, by the absence of something, but I can't work it out at first. Then I realise, there is no sound of hammering. This little corner of Bangladesh, at least, is not a building site, and so I am able to fall into a pleasant late afternoon sleep. Time passes and the sun moves through the room,. It casts angular slabs of light, and, slowly bathing my face, wakes me up.

Into the shower and then to see S - a colleague back when we worked here. She is a large, imposing woman with a bold laugh. Since the birth of her daughter she is now even larger, and walks through these dusty streets like a galleon in full sail, her voice ringing out. I admire her - she takes no crap from anyone - no mean feat for a Bangladeshi woman. However, even she is now facing the daunting challenge of the role laid down for daughters-in-law. But that's for another blog...

We stroll for a while, talking of family and friends, and of life in Bangladesh, and then return to her house. The walls are pale green and scuffed, the furniture set back hard against the walls, as often here, at formal right angles. Her mother comes in bearing a tray of sweets, bananas and apples. Another impressive figure, her teeth stick out independently of each other at improbable angles, but her face is knowing and generous.

It is evening by now, and as we sit the power suddenly fails. I lean back and observe the fleeting shapes in the black room. There are rapid, practised movements and candles are soon mustered, so we remain where we are and talk in the flickering half-light. A gecko scuttles across the wall, feet splayed, past the calendar showing the poet Tagore, and is lost in the gloom.

S. suggests we go and sit on the flat roof instead, as without the fans it is now too hot down here in the dark. So up we go, pull two old metal chairs into place, and enjoy the cooler evening air. But the day is dying, and the darkness moves in on us like a sea. In the distance, frogs have started up their croaking chatter around the pond. S. sits talking, now just a silhouette in the slate-blue light. Then we are just two voices. The brittle stars wink overhead. Finally, there is silence.

I fall into bed that night and sleep untroubled by dreams. When I wake it is sunrise - a liquid orange glow seeping into the room. A new day, but, in the surprising way these things take you when you are on the road, a sudden feeling of overwhelming loneliness.

Continued in Part Two.

Bangladesh Diary: In This World

Andrew Morris — Tue, 5 Dec 2006 09:39:29 EST

I have spent the morning in one of many hundreds of slum areas dotted around Dhaka, in the company of my intense and socially committed friend, R, and two Swedish journalists. R. has connections with NGOs and charities who deal with street children, and he moves with ease and grace amongst these urban poor, who greet him as 'brother' and lightly touch his arm as they speak.

We are in the area of the main railway station at Komolapur. As we approach, there are trucks parked on either side of the road, their colourful painted bonnets thrown open to reveal steaming engines. There is the sound of hammer on metal, and a train's whistle in the distance. Alongside the trucks are the houses of some of the destitute street people of Bangladesh - tarpaulin, hessian sacks, stray plastic snapping in the breeze. The ground is covered in a patina of litter, dust and dirt. Our taxi's windscreen is smashed - and thus it is through this glittering spider's web that we look out on this sea of human misery.

But even here, among the destitution and grime, there is no self-pity, simply no time for despair. If there is one adjective to describe this people, it is resilient. Everyone I meet is resourceful and determined. They are also generous and dignified, and we are welcomed as guests with a humbling openness.

Most of the people are unemployed - though some work as rickshaw wallahs, earning less than �1 per day, and often having to give up most of that in rental charges to the rickshaw owners. Others break bricks, smashing away at the unforgiving stone, inhaling red dust. The lucky ones among the young boys are out working in garments factories, leaving the women and the girls to sit in the shade of narrow bamboo houses, washing the babies, or to lean in the doorways, closely watching this strange foreign delegation. The bolder ones call out 'Your country where?' They grin with delight in response to my greeting 'Salaam awaleikum'. Peace be with you.

The scrappy yard in which we first find ourselves is a jumble of old truck parts, dusty wrecked buses, cows idling away the afternoon. A calf nuzzles my knee and I reach down absent-mindedly to pat its head. What are you supposed to do with a calf? Beyond there is a green field of spinach plants, and over there, in the corner, a man crouches down to pee.

But the building which draws our attention above all others is a small corrugated iron shack. Decorated with torn colourful posters advertising mineral water and Sprite, this is the makeshift one-room school.

The kids tumble in on our arrival and sit in huddled rows at the miniature wooden benches, and the bespectacled young teacher sternly puts them through their paces. They chant the Bangla alphabet; they count to ten in English. Their faces catch the sun - a study in light and shade. Their tiny voices form a ragged thin chorus, as of hungry birds. They lean forward - hanging onto every word. Soon after, they play games outside, Simon Says, Touch. It's not much in the way of formal schooling, but here is co-ordination, collaboration, language: luxuries they can't access so easily in the grim daily round of home survival. ides, between this young student and his charges there is a real connection - a sense of commitment which is all too absent in so many schools here. There is just the slightest chance these kids will follow these role models and escape the poverty of their parents. They will not easily let go of this chance.

Bes

Round the corner is another, even bigger slum. We walk over, taking in the occasional moment of lightness as we pass. A queue of people step daintily onto a punt, balancing precariously on the shimmering green water. A couple of girls dressed in brilliant red and white saris head for an end-of-exam celebration at their school, their make-up skilfully applied, their dark eyes catching and holding ours. Some hopeless romantic has written 'I love you' on the grimy windscreen of a dead bus.

But then we are back in the narrow lanes, the bamboo, corrugated and brick houses (in strict ascending order) themselves a sad little league table of poverty. The open sewers flow past. We move from house to house, greeted like visiting kings. Everywhere we stop there is a huddle: bright and curious eyes follow our every move. Faces appear at the window, children gather at the door. The children's faces are beautiful, but they are also knowing, old before their time.

There are babies everywhere. When I was a child I would follow instructions in drawing books to look carefully at a picture and find the ten hidden mice. You could do the same here - can you spot the twenty babies in this picture? Down there in the corner - over there on the table... Every time I move or bring my arms down from taking a picture my elbow bumps gently into some poor child's head.

Inside these houses attempts have been made, as everywhere in the world, to decorate. Coloured bedspreads, torn glossy pictures of film stars, clawing back a sense of home. Here too we meet committed young people who give up their time to teach the children, bringing glimmers of hope in the lifelong struggle to be heard. They give instruction on how to clean your teeth, how to put away whatever money your childhood labours may bring, what the letters of the alphabet look like. It is inspiring to see such unwillingness to give up.

But what other, harder, lessons lie ahead of these old-young kids?

Bangladesh Diary: Laughing Buddha

Andrew Morris — Thu, 30 Nov 2006 00:48:20 EST

His face is a little thinner than last time we met, and his brow a little more furrowed, but there is no mistaking the old Mitoyan. When I lived here eight years ago, I got to know him through my driver, who was a Buddhist, and so began my acquaintance with this jolly and radiant monk, whose eyes disappear into crescent moons when he laughs.

Getting to the temple involves another scuttling ride across town by baby taxi. I'm learning now to lean each way as we screech on three wheels at impossible angles. So this is how speedway must feel, I reason as we jolt along, other vehicles so close it would be possible, if you were truly insane, to reach out and touch them. It's early afternoon and the cars, trucks and rickshaws among which we dart gleam with bright daubs of sun.

I am training my eyes to look again, rather than just see, so that things which have long seemed normal come into focus once more. Here, for example, is a family of four balanced precariously on a motorbike, a miracle of physics, the wife sitting elegantly side-saddle, a shopping bag in one hand and a toddler in the other. Another tiny child straddles the engine, leaning back against his father, looking utterly at home in the turbulent rush.

We pass a man with five bird cages on a long pole. Flashes of turquoise and emerald catch my eye, and then are lost to view, obscured by a crowded double-decker bus, painted in green and red. Over there on the pavement is a man with a tiny drum, and two monkeys on a lead. He beats the drum and the sharp little monkeys dance, their black eyes flashing and curious. A string of political posters flutter on the walls, each party represented by a strangely banal symbol, so as to be recognisable to illiterate voters. The ones I catch sight of are a football, a ladder and a bucket. Underneath the pitiful shade of a dust-laden grey umbrella, a group of women breaks bricks, hammering endlessly, as the red powder rises into the hot air. As ever, the sky up above is punctuated by logos from another world: the tall neon-lit signs advertise Toshiba, Sony and Mitsubishi.

During my forty-minute journey, Mitoyan phones me four times to check my progress. Mobile phones are a godsend for Bangladeshis, for whom communication is everything, and a goldmine no doubt for the corporations who run them. It is as well to phone - forty minutes is a long time in Bangladesh - there may be delays, changes of plan, changes of mind. Anything could happen. Not for nothing is the word Inshallah the first and most important word you must learn here...

He meets me at the agreed spot and we take a rickshaw, an odd sight: a foreigner and a monk rolling serenely by. For once, I am the less-stared at of two people - the onlookers initially baffled and unable to decide who merits more of their attention - the bald orange monk or the blue-eyed hairy-armed foreigner. Final score, (to my amusement): Mitoyan wins hands down.

Once at the temple and school compound I sit in his room, enjoying a cup of weak coffee, and a bowl of delicious roshmallai - a sweet milky pudding, and we laugh at his smart watch and his trendy mobile, buried deep in the folds of his dark orange robe. I take a picture of him speaking into it and this delights him. Now I look like a film star.

I look around the room. There is a sink, some plastic flowers, a poster of a Yamaha motorbike. Over on the other side there is a case full of assorted crockery and, bizarrely, a tennis racquet. A shopping bag full of books bears the legend Lady Diana Department Store, and there, indeed, is a picture of the fairy-tale princess, looking wide-eyed and innocent in those early unknowing years. Above the bed there is a panoramic picture of a monastic convention in Taipei. Mitayan, grinning, challenges me to find him in the crowd. I look in panic at the eight hundred or so monks, all identically bald, all identically clad in saffron. But there, suddenly, he emerges from the crowd, his face serious for once as befits a gathering of such solemnity, and I am able to point him out with some relief.

There is something troubling Mitoyan today though, and soon it emerges that his sister has recently been killed in a car accident, her rickshaw smashed by a careering jeep, one more victim of the lethal roads. I am very gloomy these days, Andrew, and very thankful. He has lost 14 kilos in the last two months. His mother is old, and has no-one left to look after her, apart from a few distant relatives, and sits, bewildered, in her village, drowning in the grief of all mothers who live to see their children die.

After this tragic news, we sit in silence for a while, while the Buddha looks down from a picture on the wall. In fact, Mitoyan and I never actually say much anyway - but there is something calming and laid back about him which makes every encounter something to look forward to. He is one of those rare characters with whom it is enough just to sit, to take in the pearly late afternoon sky and to enjoy the quietness of true companionship.

Before returning home, there is a visit to the Abbot, an imposing man who speaks in accurate and careful singsong English. As we talk of how he needs a teacher in his neat monastery school in the Hill Tracts (what a wonderful job - any takers?) a couple of parents of children at the school come in and prostrate themselves in front of him. They are still there, now on their knees, when we leave five minutes later.

We return for a final cup of tea to Mitoyan's room. Perhaps is appropriate that the evening ends, as usual, with a power cut. He lights a candle on the table and I take in the flickering light, the dancing orange glow, and the last few moments of peace before heading out into the roaring traffic.

Bangladesh Diary: Happy Families

Andrew Morris — Mon, 27 Nov 2006 03:38:20 EST

It is one of those magical Dhaka scenes. We are trundling along in a rickshaw down small and crooked lanes. It is night, and light bulbs glow under each rickshaw - miniature moons suspended in the darkness. A warm breeze blows in our faces. All around the sights of night-time Dhaka back streets crowd in on us. The orange sparks from a welder's torch flare up in a mechanic's shop to our left as the workers crouch round a battered piece of old metal. On our right a group of old bearded men sit discussing life in a homeopath's waiting room, where the brown jars glow dully under the bright strip lighting and the pale yellow walls draw the visitors in, suggesting homeliness and calm.

There is the music of rickshaw bells - the traffic for once a long way away, hidden in the folds of darkness. We pass fabric shops where there are more assistants than customers and CD shops blaring out the latest techno Bhangra music. Women and men emerge from the shadows and slip by almost unnoticed. Occasionally one of them catches sight of this foreigner and a look of momentary surprise travels briefly across their face, before they too are lost to the past.

My friend N and I are talking - one of those long conversations in which we try to discover each other's culture. We have talked before about our different perspectives on arranged marriages, the rituals of death, the joys and perils of childhood. Tonight though we touch on two more of these topics which delight and which contain, for me, the whole point of all this travel and exploration, this journey towards experience.

He tells me how he goes home to visit his family in Rajshahi once a month. He is a college lecturer - a man of knowledge, as we like to say here, a man who commands respect. In fact it surprises me how often I myself am introduced or addressed as learned consultant. To me this conjures up an image of a medieval scholar, candle in hand, poring over a manuscript which threatens to turn to dust in my fingers.

But despite this great erudition, when N visits his mother at home everything changes. There he is no longer a 40-year old pillar of the educational community - he is merely a son. And that brings with it a whole new set of norms and rules. He tells me that if his mother instructs him to come home at 9pm, then he does so. And if he arrives home late he is, quite naturally, reprimanded. I am surprised by this - surely at his stage in life he no longer expects to be rebuked? Why doesn't he tell his mother not to interfere? Why not have a frank exchange of views, clear the air?

Oh no - the answer is simple. So simple it almost pains N to have to spell it out for me. This is impossible, because his mother has spoken. And she deserves better than this, she has earned this infallibility through the years of motherhood. As a consequence, it is surely obvious that she cannot be contradicted.

My mind floods with guilty memories of times when I, like everyone else I know, responded with irritation to my own parents' guidance, back in the days when I thought the world was mine to rule. We prize our freedom back home in the old country. No-one can tell us what to do - that's a lesson we learn in adolescence - and we repeat it so often... And how difficult it would be to return to the submission that is expected here: the automatic deference. We have come too far.

After a while the conversation moves on to another intriguing aspect of family life. It never ceases to amaze me here that 'family members' can travel across the country, turn up unannounced at a relative's home, and expect to be accommodated, fed and watered for up to a month. The thought of turning up for three weeks, suitcase in hand, at an aunt's or cousin's house back home simply doesn't compute. We're not talking about crisis situations here - we're talking about saying: I know, I think I'll call in on Uncle Bob - for a month or so. I can picture all too easily the surprised expression, the awkward moment in the doorway, the pained politeness and the resigned Well I suppose you'll be wanting a cup of tea?

None of that here - no in Bangladesh as a host you put aside all your plans, welcome this visitor from afar and then happily put them up/put up with them for as long as it takes. When I tell my colleagues here of how, back home, we need to arrange these things, we need to call ahead, they are astonished. Even for your family? Yes, I'm afraid so. In fact sometimes especially for your family... Visits for tea are one thing, and it goes without saying that longer visits from parents or siblings would be a matter of course, but that's as far as it goes.

I, in turn, am astonished at the generosity of heart shown here. No doubt people feel inconvenienced from time to time, on the arrival of Great Uncle Faisal. but that does not alter the situation. Family is family, and it's your duty to do the right thing by your guest. There is nothing more to say.

This may change over time of course, Friends and colleagues tell me of their fear, in the age of the mobile phone and surround-sound home entertainment, that the social fabric is being threatened as people carve out their own sense of space and individual life. But in the meantime, people count here, and it shows itself in so many ways.

At home I always prided myself on an ability to remember people's faces - even long after a chance meeting. I remember the waiter who served me in a restaurant once, or the taxi driver who picked me up at a crowded station years ago. Sadly however, this is a talent which goes completely unacknowledged here: because in this place everyone remembers you. People have a gift for noticing other people, and they store your face, seemingly forever, in their remarkable memories.

It is a true indicator of how important people are here to each other - and who knows, perhaps this talent for humanity, the respect for family and openness to receiving relatives are all different facets of the same diamond.

This jewel has, in many other countries, already become a museum piece. In a darkened room, crowds of open-mouthed onlookers surround the glass case, gazing in silence at the spot-lit gem, trying in vain to remember what it once represented.

Bangladesh Diary: Freedom Fighter

Andrew Morris — Fri, 24 Nov 2006 00:26:59 EST

An evening in the company of a bitter man isn't an easy prospect. And make no mistake, our old colleague T is both bitter and angry. But his eyes shine with a fierce intelligence and his stance is shot through with a defiant pride, so on such an evening at least you're never bored.

We find ourselves in his little house on the campus of a provincial teacher training college. The walls have been painted police-light blue - a forbidding shade which somehow makes them close in. A glimpse into other rooms offers a marginally less gloomy vista: there the walls are moss green, with dark patches of damp. A light bulb hanging from the ceiling stutters weakly. The furniture is basic, a few scattered cane chairs and a simple table, and the only decorations on the wall are family pictures, just slightly askew, and a calendar. You will always find a calendar, it seems, in a Bangladeshi living room. Are we all counting the days here?

T speaks fluent English, crisp and clear, which is just as well, as he speaks a great deal. This evening, in this time of huge political uncertainty and popular discontent, he unburdens himself of a lecture on exactly where the country has gone wrong. Now and again he reaches for the sort of quaint English phrase you might normally hear on the lips of a retired Colonel, (or perhaps that thought is planted in my mind by his deep-set eyes, the way he wears his clipped moustache, and the slightly tinted glasses reminiscent of a South American dictator). The country, he opines, is quite plainly "going to the dogs. Standards are slipping, I tell you. It is getting worse day by day. Everyone is after money, no-one will do any work."

It's a grim picture he paints: one in which all are out to exploit each other, where "if you ask a man to do a day's labour for you, the bloody doesn't turn up." All politicians are criminals, shysters, with their own wallets the sole focus of their thoughts. Students, he maintains, are no longer interested in learning - only in getting their hands easily on a job or making political mischief. He pauses occasionally to take a sip of his dark brown tea, made with enough sugar to start a small shop, and then takes up where he left off.

The tone of his words reveals a man wearied by life, whose hopes and aspirations have all been filed away in the bottom of a dusty drawer. His solutions don't offer much of a way out either. When I ask him what he would do to address the country's problems, he offers to "take the main culprits, line them up and shoot them. That would soon show the rest." I gulp suddenly on my tea, foreseeing an awful lot of shooting in T's world.

T also speaks fluent Russian, having spent seven years as a student in Siberia. When he speaks of those times, there among the grey Soviet-style tenement blocks and the freezing open squares, a rare mellowness enters his voice and his otherwise rigid mask slips. Towards the end of the evening, he offers up the well-worn sentiment "they were the best years of my life." But in the context, these words take on extra pathos: T returned over twenty years ago.
When I tentatively suggest that his considerable skills and knowledge as an educator have perhaps been underutilised since his return (he subsequently travelled on study tours to several other countries in the region), he throws back his head and guffaws. It is the only time he laughs. He applied for several jobs on his return, he says, but was not prepared to pay the bribes to get them. "I will not do it. I won't bend the rules. Even though it's kept me stuck in this job and I've been denied promotion." He may go to his grave still railing against the injustice, but he'll do so with the righteousness of an Old Testament prophet.

Now, as the night seeps into the room around us, he tires, and suddenly decides it is time for the audience to come to a close. As we walk to the gate together, he offers a terse final verdict. "I was once a freedom fighter, active in the war of Independence, full of dreams for this newborn country. But this is not the Bangladesh I fought for." And with that, he bids us good night, turns on his heel, and disappears into the gloom.

Bangladesh Diary: La Dolce Vita (A Day Out In Upmarket Dhaka)

Andrew Morris — Mon, 20 Nov 2006 05:21:27 EST

Such a perfect day. A silken breeze blowing, but not strong enough to wake up the guards snoozing in the shade outside the villas of Gulshan - barely enough to stir the vivid bougainvillea. An ideal day, in fact, for setting out to find out how the other half (a percent) lives.

I get into my rickshaw and ask Sumon, my rickchauffeur, to take me round the mansions. Aware that the impressions given so far have been of noise and chaos, of demented baby taxis and tumble-down shacks, of haunting children and royal welcomes in the houses of the poor, I now bring you a glimpse of the lives of the middle and upper classes - a term which, by the way, correlates here almost entirely to your bank balance. There is old money here, but essentially you can earn and spend your way into the upper classes. You too can drive a flash BMW and live in a gated palace.

We pass the British Club with its rattan chairs, its lawn and its pool. It is empty at this time in the morning. Outside, in the ubiquitous trees, monkeys whoop and swing. As we ride slowly round, I look through wrought-iron entrances, at balconies, shrubberies, marble-floored hallways. Some of the houses would grace any Beverly Hills driveway - so much space you could happily accommodate a small village in each one. Nothing stirs. What reason is there for these newly-rich to be about at nine on a Friday morning? The only movement here is of the silent gardeners lovingly tending the abundant flowers. Meanwhile, out here on the streets, one or two ex-Brigadiers take their morning constitutional, their backs ramrod-straight, elegant moustaches and carved walking sticks fully present and correct.

Time for a little fashion shopping? Into a baby taxi and on to the Basundhara Shopping Mall - the biggest in Asia - a gargantuan glass and steel temple of chic. Outside, I am asked by a young guy to have my picture taken with him. He stands there earnestly next to me as the shutter opens. I manage a wan smile and walk in - wondering what on earth he will make of this picture when he opens his little folder of photos.

Inside you are initially struck by the monumental architecture - the giant steel rings on each floor, the golden lift which glides up the wall and the stained glass ceiling. You are cocooned by piped music, and Sting warbles from an outsize screen. A raffle promises a car - but whereas in Singapore or Dubai there would be a sleek Bentley on offer, here there is a little orange family Kia. The young and smart congregate, ogle the clothes shops and each other, compare the latest smartphones.

Your gaze travels up with the lift to take in eight floors. On three of these, the sign informs that you can meet all your ‘suiting and shirting’ needs. Above these are floors groaning with rainbow saris and the latest Bollywood CDs. The top floor offers the Food Court, a Multiplex Cinema and a Theme Park etc. I am intrigued, and baffled, by this ‘etc’.

Only one way to find out. But on getting to the top I find I have been reborn as a pinball, rocketing around a table. Deafening electronic noise, rapid-fire pop songs, shrill laughter fill the air. There is an amusement arcade, and a dodgem rink - though you wonder why anyone would bother when the roads outside offer far more thrills for free. There are couples looking earnestly at each other, touching each other’s hands: it’s not great as romantic trysting spots go but it may well be the only place they can sit away from prying eyes and family pressures.

There are groups of giggly girls on bright plastic seats and packs of hopeful boys. The air is acrid with the thin smell of frying fat - Neon Signs advertise Dolce Vita Gelato, Hello Fried Chicken and, best of all, Tongue & Tummy Fast Foods. Tempted though you surely are, you manage to pass these nutritional oases by, stopping only for a paper cup of unappetising Nescafe. Come back Starbucks, all is forgiven…

Three English-medium students out for the afternoon sit at a table. Their clothes are smart, their faces are intelligent and their English is fluent. It’s spiced with the phrases of the international MTV generation: it's all cool. Though I have invited myself to their table, they are immediately friendly and welcoming, at ease with this stranger, confident of their place in the world. As we talk a woman passes. She wears a black burka from head to toe - and therefore appears to glide along the floor. Her daughter walks defiantly alongside her, in strappy top and torn jeans. Oh to be a fly on the wall during their rows…

There is something unsettlingly familiar and at the same time strange here. On the one hand, these young people are just doing what their contemporaries from Singapore to Frisco are up to on a weekend. They are hanging out. The odd thing is that so few Bangladeshis have the opportunity to relax in this way - to have leisure you first need time, and to have time you need money. But looking around at these carefree people you are reminded how essentially liberal Bangladesh can be.

Out once more into the grey city afternoon, and an uneasy dose of reality. My baby taxi stops at a red light, but this time something is not quite right. The usual chugging of engines is penetrated by a sweet plaintive song. Suddenly, she steps into view - a blind woman, led by a young girl. Her milky eyes seem to fix eerily on mine as she sings. Guiltily, I drop some pennies into her hand, and she moves on, her face momentarily lit up. It is a strange thing to see a woman with blind eyes smile.

A few minutes later I arrive at the destination of choice round here for the upwardly mobile: Café Mango: a trendy place where you can at last sip an espresso. Potted plants, edgy urban music, soft lighting and the low buzz of intimate conversation.

But I end off the night with a meal back in Gulshan at Le Saigon with two friends. Live music this time: mellow covers from the 60s, expertly performed. All around are the older brothers and sisters of the kids I have seen all day - silk-shirted, dripping in jewellery, expensive cuff-links, frameless glasses, designer make-up. They all bear the tell-tale signs of the Dhaka middle classes: a certain glossy plumpness, loud self-assurance, manicured nails, knowing laughter.

But eventually the bottle of red wine is drained and the last melodies die away. As I head home under the huge futuristic TV screens relaying adverts into the black midnight air, it seems for a while that the living is easy, down here in our fragile bubble.

Bangladesh Diary: A Week In The Life Of A Dhaka Resident

Andrew Morris — Wed, 15 Nov 2006 00:15:44 EST

Sunday

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a strange shape on the little raised roundabout. Closer attention reveals that this is a man, prostrate on the ground. So what? Many people here sleep rough, curling up on the ground when their legs will take them no further, and falling like a stone into deep sleep.
But this is no sleeping man.

It is only when I look harder that I notice his arm, thrust up into the hazy sky at an impossible angle, his fist clenched. This man is dead. His body has already begun to swell and discolour, his upward punch a last gesture of rage aginst the dying of the light. Against the world which sweeps by oblivious on either side.

Monday

In the kitchen, I open the tupperware pot where I store my impressively healthy muesli only to find it is, rather unimpressively, alive with ants. Now I like my breakfast crunchy, but this is going a bit far. For a moment I try to remember whether it's folic or formic acid which is meant to be good for you. Either way, as a vegetarian there must surely be moral objections.

And so I settle for toast instead. I point out this sad state of affairs to the ever-resourceful Nirmol that evening. I am about, in my western way, to throw away the offending muesli, when he stops me: 'No problem, sir'. He removes the swarming container from me, and gently empties it into a frying pan. With a grin he turns on the gas flame, ever so low, and hey presto, all the ants make a hasty getaway over the sides. Lightly-toasted muesli the next morning tastes very good indeed. The odd charred ant on the cooker has to make do with my sincere apologies.

Tuesday

I am sitting in my study when I notice an odd, flitting movement outside in the living room. Rapid, unpredictable, casting shadows over the wall. When I investigate further I see to my horror that it's a bat. Now Bat in the Flat may sound like a harmless Dr Seuss book to you, but I am terrified. In fact, it's an elemental fear, the fear we knew in caves, which in itself shocks me. Fear not only of this whizzing thing, making me duck wildly, but of its outline when it lands on the floor, wings extended, to draw breath (if bats draw breath). A full, bat-like shape. A sort of joke rubber bat. Ready to fly up into my face, into my hair. (I'm sure we'd both regret that, particularly if it got impaled on a spike). I'm surprised I don't leap into Jules (my wife's) arms making the sort of 'Eek' we used to read in childhood comics. As it is, Jules calmly opens the window and it flies gratefully out, having hung upside down for a while on the curtain rail. So much for the archetypal role of man about the house...

Wednesday

I am in the lift on the way up to our third-floor flat when there is another power cut. Nirmol later tells me this is the fourth that day. Stuck there in the pitch dark, with beads of sweat already beginning to prick my temples, I fish out my green-glowing phone and call Jules. Nirmol is sent into action, and I hear much shouting and running outside. However, as the generator, (which, despite its name doesn't seem to generate enough of anything to operate the lift) has been started down in the stairwell, no-one can hear me inside. Eventually, a handyman is found to prise open the doors with a crowbar. I jump down, relieved, from mid-floor and am surprised to see a crowd of at least 15 applauding onlookers. I am pleased to have brought some drama to their day.

Thursday

Nazma, the home help, is by now part of the family, and her cheerful smile illumines the flat. Today though, she tells me of how the guard downstairs is bothering her, whispering at her, asking where her husband is, insinuating that she is stealing from her white boss, or worse. Such is the petty attrition by which people, and especially women, are kept in place here - not only by envious guards but by interfering neighbours and dominating families. 'We Bangladeshis are not good people, unlike you' she observes grimly. 'You are free and your minds are cool'. This is a refrain you often hear here. Clearly this is not my experience, but then again, how much can we serial travellers ever really understand the countries we live in? How much of what we experience is seen through our own filters, no matter whether they are tinted rose or grey?

Friday

Dhaka is a dynamic, ever-changing city: suddenly there are now three good book shops here which have an eclectic selection of serious political and historical works, contemporary fiction and airport blockbusters. Now that my own reading has run out, I head to one of these shops, 'Words into Pages', to have a look around. The young staff, all kitted out in smart black t-shirts, have clearly been primed to please. One of them rushes up to me with a professional smile and says, 'Sir, can I interest you in the latest Jeffrey Archer?' Does she notice my face fall? Andrew Morris, budding middle-aged writer, leaves the shop feeling rather downcast, on account of the fact that he may look, even to a Bangladeshi unaware of the connotations, like the kind of person who might read Jeffrey Archer.

On my way home, my glumness is compounded when I am crudely overtaken by a powerful BMW careering round the corner. The sleek car is one of many you now see, built by Germans to drive at 200 miles an hour on the autobahn, but never reaching above 10 mph here on the grudging, potholed roads. Cars like this seem to belong to the young rich here: the ones who frequent sharp places such as Pizza Hut and Movenpick Ice Cream Parlour, where the lights are bright, the colours loud, and the prices conveniently exclusive. The sassy girls wear tailored salwar kameez, the fashion being now for sleeveless tops, revealing toned and slender upper arms. Meanwhile, the guys are self-consciously cool and muscular and their floppy hair is swept stylishly back, a pair of designer sunglasses balanced artfully on top.
This youthful driver, by cutting us off, has saved himself approximately 4 seconds. I wonder how he plans to use this time.

Saturday

I return from the airport having seen Jules head off again, leaving me alone with my bats. Already a melancholy state of mind is lapping around me like a slow tide: the rickshaws that little bit less colourful, the traffic more fractious than it seemed for the past month, now just the other side of bearable. When we reach the flat, the uniformed guard, who has helped heave Jules' case into the car, notices my mood. He is a small, round-shouldered man, with the full black beard of a devout Muslim, and a gentle voice. As usual in these set-piece interactions, I state the obvious, only this time a bit more glumly. 'Bhabi (big sister) has gone'. He looks concerned and replies 'Don't worry, Sir, I am here'. Although he won't exactly make a good substitute for my beloved, I am touched by this empathy, and for a brief moment my heart unfurls like a tiny flower after winter snow.