Bangladesh Diary: 60 Seconds

Monir, my driver, arrives promptly at 8 each morning. He is in his fifties, short and slight, with dyed thinning black hair slicked back, and teeth stained dark red with betel. His shirt is pressed white, immaculate as only Bangladeshis seem to be able to manage in this clinging, humid city. We wind our way through the leafy streets of Gulshan, past the mansions and gardens, the tall gates and security guards, heading for the congested main roads which lead down to the office. He drives calmly and impassively, seasoned by years in this traffic, edging and nudging his chariot forward with professional ease. His use of the horn is expert and sparing. He has driven trucks across the Saudi desert in his time - these roads are child's play.

I've been sitting for years in the melee that is Dhaka traffic, in which flashing lights, blaring horns and cars jostling for space are all regular fare. Occasionally it's possible to find a sort of weird genius to it, as well as proof of the tenacity and resilience which for me most characterize Bangladesh. Perhaps these trumpeting horns could be seen as an advanced and complex form of communication? Perhaps the five rows of cars in a space designed for three rows is actually an innovative use of space? But sadly these positive driving moments are as rare as a female driver here: more often this delightful illusion vanishes and the traffic seems chaotic and unruly once again. But either way, Monir is always there, skilled and dependable as a Himalayan mountain guide, and for this alone I hereby nominate him for the Nobel Prize for Driving.

He talks as he steers. Today he tells me how his wife wakes him with a cup of tea every morning at 6, so that he can be on the road by 7. Nothing unusual in this, I reflect. It seems fairly standard here for wives to dance attendance on their husbands. But then, keeping his dark eyes on the road ahead, he continues: 'You know, before I leave the house I pull her towards me and hold her to my heart for 60 seconds'. He stresses the number with particular emphasis. One hand on the wheel still, he mimes this close embrace and looks at me with a delighted smile.

In a culture where conjugal affection is rarely displayed, I am amazed by this disclosure. Indeed, I hardly ever see couples touch in public, although these days it seems there are more and more young people prepared to hold hands under the cover of dusk. Threatening though this may be to the old order, I always feel heartened when I see this. Once I even noticed a middle-aged couple hand in hand. The challenges of getting through the day here seem tough enough: what better way to face these tribulations than in partnership, and what better symbol of the strength to survive than two interlinked hands forming a tiny human chain?

We negotiate our way past a riotous tangle of rickshaws, saloons and passers-by darting among the speeding vehicles. Policemen blast their whistles and wave their arms. Green coconuts, marigolds, oranges are piled high at the roadside, their vendors enjoying sitting back in the morning shade of the trees. We pass crumbling offices and gleaming tinted glass tower blocks, whose fronts display a profusion of colourful signs in Bangla crowding the air, clamouring for attention. Crows settle on the occasional piles of rubbish, looking for spoils.

The hoardings high up above the road advertise the accoutrements of middle-class aspiration: Hoovers, washing powder, SUVs, skin whitener. How happy those families look up there in Advertland! And how fair-skinned they all seem! Meanwhile, down below, the legions of beggars and hawkers limp, hobble and wheel themselves into action whenever the traffic stops, gathering round the stationary vehicles, tapping windows and holding up babies, books, flowers, popcorn and twisted limbs.

Monir sees my raised eyebrows and goes on, warming to his theme. 'My kids, they ask me why I do this each day. They're surprised like you. But I tell them that when you get to my age, you need to give and receive more love'.

He considers a while longer, then turns towards me and says: 'What else do we have, here, but love?'