Bangladesh Diary: Home and Away

It's not everyone who gets the chance to go overseas to study for two years, and she was delighted about it. But my friend A. was also a little melancholy over coffee here in Dhaka, two days before her departure. 'On my way here', she said, 'I saw an old man walking under a palm tree, and noticed the way the tree moved in the rain. Then I realised I would not be seeing them for a long time. And of course never in that exact same way again'. And so was born a new concept for those of us who spend our lives away from home: to 'pre-miss' (vb) meaning 'to start missing something before you've actually left it behind'.

And indeed her pre-missing was prescient, for here she is a mere two weeks later, writing from her distant new home: "...not only the man under the tree, I miss the things that used to make me annoyed, like traffic jams, horns on the road, domestic conspiracies, etc... Everybody likes it here, because it is quiet and peaceful. But for me, it is too quiet to bear. And here I have to be so sophisticated that I should not laugh loudly, should not stare at strangers, should not talk much..."

Funny that the things she misses are the very delights most foreigners grimace over, and for many of these same bideshis a drop of this dreaded 'sophistication' would go down very nicely once in a while. But for A, these are what make 'home'. It's why we all have a favourite armchair. It's simply the comfort of the familiar.

Take noise, for example, here in Bangladesh we are happily used to din of all kinds: the crashing cymbals of construction sites (one friend refers to this country as Bang Bang Bangladesh), the drum'n'bass trucks rumbling by, the shrill harmonies of traffic jams, the susurration of fans. Maybe we even need noise? Once when I visited a teacher at home, we sat talking as the TV chattered in the corner. At one point, obviously a little discomfited by the level of loudness, my colleague leaned over towards the TV. And turned it up. After that we were forced to speak at a volume usually reserved for a slightly deaf great-uncle, and she beamed as she sat back in her chair. At last things were homely and she could relax...

When she left Bangladesh, A reveled in the novelty of being away, writing for instance of a man at an underground station in her new home, who not only accompanied her and her friend to a ticket machine one day but actually bought tickets for them: the simple kindness of strangers. But life on the road is subject to strange swings of emotion. Elation, awe, loneliness, excitement, melancholy. And that's before you even get out of bed in the morning. For the truly lucky, however, these all blend over time into a kind of serenity - a feeling of ease wherever you find yourself. A realisation perhaps, that 'backdrop' is merely that, and that the only place where you ever really live is in your own mind.

Still, even when you feel settled somewhere, you occasionally have moments in which you miss the finer things of home, which you usually keep stored away at the back of your mind in an old wooden box, like long-forgotten family heirlooms. Most of the time, through the long sunlit days, this box stands in the corner: dusty, locked and unneeded, the key temporarily mislaid. At other times, you need to take a quick peek, which leaves you glowing, able to close the lid with a smile. But there are also evenings when the light is pearly and fading, and you might need to sit hard on the lid, knowing that if you merely glance inside, your homesickness will sidle out at you, enveloping you in its silken song. On really dark days you may just be tempted to climb inside and pull the lid down after you, but then how hard the re-emergence into the twilit pallor of reality...

But today, you'll be heartened to know, is merely a quick peek sort of day. So what is it that I find when I prise open the lid, this sun-filled October morning? For the record, here's a short list.

My family. Crisp mornings, where the sun glitters through cold dry air. The sound of a cello. Autumn colours. Green food which goes 'crunch' when you eat it. Cars which flash their lights at you asking you to go first, rather than telling you to get out of the way. Hills. Silent streets which have no people on them. Electricity which stays on all day. Variety of entertainment (here, while doing outlandish things like buying a mango or using a mobile phone, I actually become the entertainment for many a passer-by). History frozen through architecture. Having a face not glowing with the fine sheen of perspiration three seconds after leaving the house. Buses with only four passengers. Choral evensong. Unsweetened bread (brown, please). My flat, and yes, my favourite armchair. My friends back home. And always, always, the grey-white winter sea.

But one day I too will be leaving here. And rest assured, when the tables are turned, I too will pine for the crowds, the morning birdsong, the way people smile so openly, and for more friends than I could hope to list here.

Damn, writing this, I'm almost pre-missing them already.