The hundredth empty place

There are a hundred empty places I’ve stood in, the past four years of traveling, and imagined kissing someone. By empty, of course, I mean alone.

Sometimes it was a wild place, like the Devil’s Throat in Iguazu Falls, or the winter wonderland of Bohemia, or the Tiger’s Nest in Bhutan.

Sometimes it was a lost place, like the overgrown temples of Angkor Wat, or the red city of Fatehpur Sikri, or the Incan trails in Peru.

Less often, it was an urban space, like the gardens of Hanoi’s Ethnology Museum, or the Montjuic Cemetery in Barcelona, or most recently, in my flat in my favourite megacity, Dhaka.

Dhaka wasn't on my itinerary this year. I meant to use my savings to 1) escape the East Coast winter, and 2) fund a 3 month writing retreat in San Francisco and Mexico City, before returning to New York to find an agent for my books. But then I got an email from my mother. She had just left my father in Dhaka and was worried about him.

Since retiring from geological consulting a year and half ago, Abbu has written two books: a novel and a collection of short stories, in Bangla. Note that during this same time, I have not written 2 books. Nor even 1. But the ways that I will never measure up to my father abound. Abbu's books were set to be published in Bangladesh in February. No one from our immediate family could attend the launch, except for me. More distressingly, Abbu's memory is failing. My charge was to get to Dhaka ASAP, help plan and attend the launch, and act as Abbu's personal assistant. Stick to him like glue, my mother entreated, and I squeezed out half my savings to do so.

Bangladesh is crazier than ever. After the horrifying February 2009 BDR mutiny, I was asked by many whether Bangladesh felt different this time. I have to say that for all the madness (which resulted in scores of officers being executed and a restructuring of the entire paramilitary force), Bangladesh did not feel different to me this time.

Recall that this is the country where I arrived in 2006 to a series of hartals (country-wide strikes), followed by riots and bombings, followed by cabinet ministers resigning, followed by a failed election, followed by a military-caretaker government, followed by emergency rule, followed by curfews, followed by anti-corruption drives, followed by a cyclone... you get the picture.

Abbu's book launch was held under the massive banyon tree at Bangla Academy, where Dhaka's month long book fair is held every year. It went famously. Noted professor and writer, Sirajul Islam Chowdhury was the guest of honour. Even better, famed author Jafar Iqbal was scheduled to speak just after Abbu's launch, and his presence on the periphery of the stage caused a mini-media sensation that spilled over to include Abbu's event.

Book publishing in Bangladesh is a different sort of affair than in America or even India. Most anyone can publish their work because the process involves the author buying half the copies printed, and selling them him/herself. Zero sum game for most authors, IF they can sell their copies.

In Abbu's case, it's difficult to tell how many books have been sold from the publisher's copies (apparently BD publishers are a lying lot). Out of "his" copies, we mailed a couple hundred to the States and held a book launch in Jackson Heights, NY on April 11, 2009 (this was fabulous as well).

Since my first winter trip to Bangladesh, back in 2001, I have loved hanging out with my dad in Dhaka. I don't know if it's because he's retired from a job that was stressing him out, or that he's finally doing what he first loved (writing), or because he's in Bangladesh speaking his mother tongue. Any which way, in his fatherland, Abbu is the funny witty man my mother always said he was and we always denied.

I think all our parents should write their memoirs for their kids. I know kids are idiots and might not appreciate this effort until too late, but at least we'd have a recorded history of a time that was not obsessively documented the way it is now.

One of my favourite Abbu stories I heard this time was set in his village in Feni when he was about 10 or so. Back in the day (when there were still lots of Hindus around), there was a stark difference between the education levels of Hindus and Muslims. The Hindus in Feni were well educated, whereas most Muslims hadn’t made it past class 8, if that. My grandfather and his cousin were the only Muslims in town who got further - when Dada returned with his masters, he was greeted at the train station by a crowd of well wishers.

Because of his education, Dada was on good terms with the Hindus and so when Abbu asked permission to go see a jatra (a staged drama) at a neighbouring Hindu family’s house, he agreed. Abbu spent most of the night at the neighbour’s place and returned, mind alight, at dawn. His uncle, who taught at the local madrasa, caught him by the front pond and asked where he’d been. After hearing that he had spent the night with Hindus, he proceeded to dunk Abbu in the pond 7 times, and made him recite prayers to cleanse himself.

One of the best parts of this story is the context in which it was told. We were at Feni Girls Cadet College with the headmaster, an army chief, and assorted teachers. What we were to learn from this story, Abbu declared, was how backwards Muslims were at the time, that watching a drama staged by Hindus could constitute a wrongdoing.

I don’t know what anyone thought of this pronouncement because all I heard afterwards was the shuffling of feet. Ha. It was the same resounding silence when Abbu saw the mosque that was being built for the college and he said he hoped they weren’t going create noise pollution by blaring the azaan through loudspeakers rather than having a human voice project the call to prayer.

Not that I should talk about kissing after talking about mosques, but here’s a story that includes both (are you excited yet?).

One dusty afternoon, I took a CNG (a compressed natural gas powered 3-wheel taxi) to Karwan Bazar. Apparently CNGs are more dangerous than ever, their passengers subject to increasing incidences of violence and theft. But as sprawling and confusing as Dhaka is, I find CNGs to be one of the easiest ways to get around. I could take buses, which are far cheaper, but my fear of new things and crowded starey places has thus far kept me from learning that system.

I thought I’d take a few pictures at Karwan Bazar and then go meet Zafar, editor extraordinaire, who works for the Daily Star. Karwan Bazar is one of the largest open air markets in Bangladesh. Selling everything from mops to mosquito nets, it is a visual treat to walk through. The first time I walked through it (in 2001), I was too shy to take even one photo, disturbed by the fixed gaze of oh, everyone. This time, I braved two shots. At this rate, I’ll have a dozen photos of Karwan Bazar by 2025.

Discouraged by my (lack of) courage, I waited outside the Daily Star offices for Zafar (have you read my book yet, Z? I want feedback). We had plans to check out Munem Wasif’s (phenomenal) photography in Old Dhaka, part of Chobi Mela, an international photography exhibition that takes place in Bangladesh every year.

When Zafar emerged, I greeted him with a kiss on each cheek, not realising that I was standing directly outside a mosque. I had not only touched a boy, but kissed him, twice, surrounded by that most judgmental of populations, religious men.

Are you disappointed with this story? You take what you get in Bangladesh, and I got very little this trip, in terms of kisses anyway. Some from a poet wanderer and more from a gay boy artist (yes way, gay boys like kissing girls sometimes).

Most of the time, I lay under my mosquito net, alone in the heated dark, and I made up my fancies in my head. My father's flat in Uttara has a corner bedroom with a balcony, which is where I stay. I leave the doors and windows open all hours of the day and night, and the wind, hot and slow, cool and wet, has its way with me.

I love Dhaka more each time I return. My friendships are stronger, more absorbing, my family ties more binding. I spent day after day, night after night, lounging in bed, on couches, in cafes, with Neeta, Nadiya, and Shahpar, my extraordinary women friends who are as sexy as they are smart and sensitive. I ate meal after meal with nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins (and to counter, spent every morning running or doing yoga). Perhaps it's no surprise that I got little writing done. And due to photography-fatigue, I didn't even take that many snaps.

Being in Bangladesh feels less like a holiday than before, and I'm glad for it. I can see myself living in Dhaka, teaching yoga, volunteering at a women's organisation, taking Bangla and photography lessons, writing. I can see myself staying. I'm writing the word again on the inside of my arm. To remind myself to be, to remain in the moment, to stop thinking about the next new thing.
stay light, stay loose, stay willing, stay wanting, stay now, stay later, stay dancing, stay jaunting, stay hungry, stay feeling, stay free, stay fine, stay closer, stay deeper, stay longer, stay mine.