Yaawwnn. It's a rainy Sunday morning. Instead of the normal cup of English Breakfast, I spent extra time brewing up some chai (black tea with milk, lots of sugar and some cinnamon sticks, cardamon and cloves). I sit snuggled under a light blanket on my couch. I hear the swishing sound as cars race through puddles past my house. I even hear a train whistle. My mind drifts back to Bangladesh and the monsoon rains. The hot, humid weather. The palm trees and rice fields. People everywhere always. Bright saris and plaid lungees. Beeping horns, yelling from various wallahs on the street. It's a romantic, exotic place in my mind. I miss the one road village that I lived in for the last part of my stay in Bangladesh. What an intense yet simple place. The women had such a tight community and the kids were a little "naughty," ever so curious and inquisitive. The ahzan would be going off about now. In fact, I glance out from my balcony and see men leaving the temporary black-market tea stall set up for Ramadan in the fenced in empty lot beside our house. Nazma comes up to me with a tired look on her face. "Oooooo Sister. I am so tired today. It is so hot. I don't know if I can do any work today. My back is hurting too much." Melodramatically she sprawls in the floor as if she has just collapsed. Heather and I have have the most dramatic house helper who you have to threaten in order to get her moving. And we still spoil her way too much. Her son Razul comes in from collecting metal and plastic bottles from trash piles with dirty feet and hands and starts touching the walls. Little maroon hand prints spot our blue and maroon walls, apparently the maroon paint doesn't stay dry in the wet season so it rubs off onto everything. Heather and I tried to get Razul into school, but he was so much older than the other kids in his class and so behind that he dropped out again. I miss Nazma and Razul. Lucky our language teacher comes by in the afternoon to practice language and teach us more about the culture. She tells us stories and we listen intently. Going to the market can be an all day event. Negotiating for prices, vying for rickshaws, finding stores that have what you need, going to other stores because no one has what you need, people staring at you, people not always understanding your funny accent. Time moves slower in Bangladesh. Afternoons visiting friends. Sitting on the one large bed in the one room house. Drinking tea, singing, decorating with mehendi (henna). Asking questions and sharing secrets. Understanding the different family structures in this strange and unique culture. Bangladesh, Bangladesh, Bangladesh. So mysterious and illusive. So vibrant and audacious. I miss you.
