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

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.