Subho Nobo Borsho!

Subho Nobo Borsho! Happy Bangla New Year! Today is the first day of Boishakh, the first month in the Bangla calendar. The calendar was created by the Emperor Akbar (15th century) to revolve around the rice harvest of Bengal. It was originally a Persian calendar with Persian names; but considering it was for Greater Bengal, they months received Bangla names. It's considered the New Year because it's the beginning of a new season, where flowers start to bloom.

Abdul and I painted traditional masks (though ours was slightly unconventional

with Farsi writing) with art students at Dhaka University's Arts Department

Everyone gets dresses up in red and white to spend the day wandering the streets,

watching floats, performers, and eating with neighbors and family.

A very sweaty musical performance at 9 am in the street of Dhaka University near Shabagh.

Friends from Germany and us celebrating with ASK on Dhanmondi Lake

(Feline, Liza, me, Regina, Eva, Abdul)

Our friend and TV personality Imtu hosting a music program for ETV. I was dragged

on stage to dance and speak bad Bangla on national television.. ugh!

Beautiful people (Imtu, me, Abdul) before getting smashed and molested in the sweating

throng of people wrestling to get free food at ETV's office. We made it out alive

to go home to a bottle of vodka, singing Bangla songs on a wood cart.

The Skeleton (1924)

There on the plain, on the way-side, an animal's skeleton

` is lying on the grass,

the same grass that had once given it strength

` and gentle rest.

They lie, bleached bones in a heap,

` time's loud dry laughter,

like death pointing its finger, insinuating:

` Where the beast ends

` there you end as well; there's no distinction

` in your case too, when life's wine's been drained,

the broken cup will be left like that in the dust.

I said: Death, I don't believe what you say

` mockingly of emptiness

My life's not the sort that becomes a total pauper

` at its journey's end,

` that at the end of the day

pays with hollow bones its last bill of board and bed.

All that I've thought and known, spoken, heard with my ears,

` all that has burst from me in sudden songs

` were not contained in a life hemmed by death.

` What I've received and what I've given back--

` on this earth of mortals where can that be measured?

Many a time has my mind's dance transcended

life and death, and gone where beauty lives

` eternally. Can it then stop for ever

` at the boundary of bones?

` My true identity

` cannot be measured by flesh.

The hours and minutes don't wear it out by their kicks,

` nor does the wayside dust pauperise it.

For in the lotus of manifest form I've drunk the honey of the formless,

in the bosom of suffering found in the dwelling of joy,

` heard within me the voice of eternal silence,

seen the way of the stars through the dark empty spaces.

` No, I'm not a big joke of the Creator,

not a grand holocaust built with infinite riches.

-Rabindranath Tagore

Baburam the Snakecharmer

Hullo there, Baburam--what have you got in there?

Snakes? Aha--and do you think there's one that you can spare?

You know, I'd love to have one, but let me tell you this--

The ones that bite aren't right for me--nor the ones that hiss.

I'd also skip the ones that butt,

As well as the ones that whistle,

Or the ones that slink about

Or show their fangs, or bristle.

As for eating habits, I think it would be nice

To go for ones that only take a meal of milk and rice.

I'm sure you know the kind of snake I want from what I've said,

Do let me have one, Baburam, so I could bash its head.

- Sukumar Ray

STUCK: between a rock and a hard place--or a car and a rickshaw..

I arrived at the center today to hear that Shona* was home sick. I imagined a cold or cramps. The story unfolds that a few days earlier she went to the market and was smashed in between a rickshaw and a CNG, penetrating her stomach.

With one other girl from the center Lila*, myself and three aid workers head to Shona’s house. Weaving through the cool morning on a rickshaw, one aid worker Rahim* shares Shona’s story. Her parents are not around and she is married to a man who “is not bad, but not good.” She was a sex worker for a few years when she had no other livelihood available. Finding the organization, she has been working for them doing crafts and making a steady income. Her husband doesn’t work and relies on Shona to support him and their two year-old daughter. The other aid workers gush about Shona, saying that she never argues with the other girls and always helps them when they need it. I see it in her: she is a complete doll. She and I have dance sessions to entertain everyone at the center. It’s uncommon for a Bangla woman to laugh as loud as she does, and I mirror it with my own.

It starts getting quiet as we get farther away from city’s business center and the sun stronger as the buildings shrink from 5 stories to at most 2 levels. The roads increasingly dirtier, bumpier, at parts non-existent or slanted from earthquakes. Getting off the rickshaw in an alley that can fit only three persons, Lila leads us through the garbage filled ditches rotting in the sun. A constant cloud of flies swarm around my feet as we step into a cluster of tin homes, each perhaps three times the size of my clothes closet on Long Island. Seeing aid workers and a bideshi (foreigner), adults and children start popping out of everywhere to follow us. Shona’s name is whispered amongst the indistinct Bangla around me when we enter her home.

She was lying on a bed lined with a plastic table cloth with one sheet covering her. The bed took up one third of the entire house (one room) with tin walls and ceiling. Her husband stood in the corner, watching us pile in with the curious entourage behind us. The rest of the room had one chair and shelves with clothes, pots and plastic bags with personal belongings.

Shona was moaning in pain, holding her stomach. Seeing us, she began to cry and grasped onto my arm, mumbling in Bangla. I covered her forehead with kisses. She lifted up her sheet and revealed the wound. I looked away, I couldn’t see it. Her daughter came around the corner with the biggest eyes and sweetest cheeks, happily placing herself in my lap as she watched her mother breath heavy. Bangla was thrown around the tiny hut too fast for me to understand. Just as I felt that I was going to hit someone if I wasn’t informed as to what was happening, Rahim finally explained: the doctor saw her for a few minutes, gave her 2-weeks worth of antibiotics cost 1000tk and Shona’s husband took out a loan of 500tk to pay for the visit but now have no money to pay for food. That’s about 20 dollars. I handled the money situation but I was so concerned about what she was feeling now. Ambulances don’t really exist, no car or even bicycle could make it to her slum door: so she must walk with this pain to the street, get on a rickshaw and bounce her way through the slum then through traffic to the hospital.

What else can we do, I keep pestering. A stretcher to the street and I'll get a taxi? Can we bring a doctor to her? I was met with nothing but blank stares. Nothing else could be done.

Rahim told me that Shona’s husband was going to take her to the hospital. Tomorrow we will see the outcome.

But that’s all I can do right now. I don’t know what else to do. Recalling the monring, it reads like any other humanitarian documentary covering a similar story. That’s what is so sad: there are so many stories like this: continuously and daily, too common that it’s cliché. But I cannot bellow loud enough or clearly enunciate how though it is prevalent, it is still continuously harrowing and crippling for them. Shona may not have experienced life outside of permanent devastation, but that doesn’t mean that she is ignorant that it should be better.

* Names have been changed.

South Asian Education and Development: Rooted in Histories

From missing internet for a dreadful two whole weeks (half sarcasm noted), I missed some news and good articles. Thanks to Neelofer, she sent me Nicholas Kristof’s article, “More Schools, Not Troops.”

Now, I debate with myself over Nicholas Kristof and the sincerity and authenticity of this work. This article was one of disappointment.

I can agree with Kristof’s overall point: a message to the US government to stop bombing countries and start to develop them by providing schools. This is one of the best ways to bring recurring, deep change. He brought up Greg Mortenson, a humanitarian I have mentioned before who has pioneered building schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan with his bare hands (not an expression, actually true.) Kristof noted that these schools are secular and are not being threatened and are welcomed by the community. Rich Islamic extremists are building schools that teach solely radical Islam, which end up being the only outlet for poor families to give their children an education. If extremists are investing in the youth to spread a particular message, can’t we start to invest in schools to spread a more secular message?

Then Kristof compared Pakistan with Bangladesh. First off, not a good idea. The two nations may have been one 50 years back but that in no means allows for a comparison: the Pakistan of 1947-1971 was forced by the British, nations separated by their enemy, India, speaking separate languages with differing cultures and economies. These differences lead to the Liberation War making Bangladesh it's own country. Pakistan is to Bangladesh as the US is to Nicaragua. To this day I don’t know how India survives with it’s own diversity.

Kristof makes the comparison that Bangladesh focused on education since becoming it’s own nation in a way that Pakistan never did. But Bangladesh received more help than Pakistan. Bangladesh was the poster-child of a desperate nation so much so that George Harrison along with Ravi Shankar held a concert in New York in 1971 to send money through UNICEF. No one did that for Pakistan. Also, Bangladesh has become the ‘development capital of the world’—education not the only focus but providing medical, social and environmental services. Education will do nothing if the current surrounding society isn’t improved. Kristof then claimed that, “Bangladesh now has more girls in high school than boys.”

At first I wondered how accurate of a statistic this is (it was not referenced). Looking at UNICEF, it seems that Bangladesh is a forerunner in achieving equality of gender enrollment in schools. Enrollment is one thing; attendance and continuing education are another--25% of Bangladeshi girls don't actually finish their primary school education according to UNESCO 2007. Kristof then says that “those Bangladeshi women joined the labor force, laying the foundation for a garment industry…” Educated women do not go into the garment industry. This industry is one of mostly unskilled labor for the most part so much so that children can work there.

The next day, I mentioned the article to an amazing friend; his father is Burmese, and his mother Persian, they met in Chittagong, Bangladesh then moved to New Jersey. He speaks English, Bangla, Urdu and local Chittagong language. He agreed, and shared some of his insight by mentioning how Bangladesh is very homogeneous: everyone speaks the same language (though dialects) and it is a very small country where it is easy to travel (via river or over the land which is mostly flat). Also add into the fact that Bangladesh fought for their country: an instant camaraderie existed as all Bangladeshis fought behind Bangabadhu for their language and culture. It was their choice and their families and neighbors as one.

Pakistan, even Afghanistan, are quite heterogeneous where communication between tribes is difficult over endless hills, too much desert and a myriad of languages. Perhaps now Afghanistan and Pakistan are uniting in their own countries—but at the rate we’re going it’s going to be in hatred against us.

While I support Kristof’s, I urge him not to compare too much two different societies. Of course, use one as an example but take into account the different histories that lead to the differences that exist today.

My First Rickshaw Accident

In the oldest part of Dhaka, aptly named, Old Dhaka – a friend and I went to do some shopping. Taking a CNG from Banani to Old Dhaka, we wandered around aimlessly until we realized we were not near Hindu Street, the main (and best) shopping street in Old Dhaka. It was my friend Sara’s One Year Anniversary of arriving in Bangladesh on the Fulbright, so her Bangla is impeccable. However, as always, none of the dozens of Bengalis following us understands our accent nor can I understand how a sentence is slurred together into one word.

Finally, one rickshaw driver knows the street – which shouldn’t be surprising because it’s the only street to buy all things Hindu. Then we climb onto what we don’t know to be the Rickshaw of Death.

Driving down new streets in Dhaka is bumpy, so driving down old streets is a whole other game. Dhaka makes a joke out of the video driving games in sports arcades. We keep yelling (yes, yelling) at our driver, “Bhai, ashte!” (Brother, slow!) But he is dodging around and through throngs of people, small streets busy with carts full of animal skins and boys playing futbol. At one point, on fairly wide part of the road, two men were walking hand-in-hand from our right side (reminder, South Asia drives on the left side of the road). Our rickshaw-wallah keeps ringing the bell, warning them of our path. To avoid them, he starts to steer around them—to the right. But, they saw us approaching and stopped walking. So, in this misunderstanding: we kept turning right, they stopped walking to our right…

We smashed in one man with the front wheel and kept rolling until we pushed him up onto the wall and into the sewer. As we are colliding into him, Sara clutches my left knee then jumps to the left off the rickshaw. Being on the right side of the seat, I can’t jump out because I’ll hit the wall, so I grip onto the back of the seat and hang on. We plow into the wall—and the man—and ram to a complete stop. I jump out to see that the back wheels of the rickshaw are in the air.

Within 4.7 seconds, 39 Bangladeshis rush to gawk at the scene. Sara grabs my arm and we exchange glances with eyes widened. We have been told that it is not safe to stay near an accident. It is common for people to attack the driver who caused an accident, in essence to punish him. But no real damage was done to anyone except shock. People start to argue but we get onto the rickshaw and drive off. Our wallah apparently didn’t learn his lesson because he kept pedaling and swerving.

We survived, thank Allah. The rest of the day was spent buying cool Hindu pictures and finding cheesey Bangla movie posters. I found one of the singer I danced in the video with, and we found the movie that Sara starred in called "Chaichi Tomar Bondhuta." I bought the movie—it’s a classic, I'll tell 'ya! Some shop owners recognized her and asked her to autograph their hands. Her one-year survival of Bangladesh, gaining the ability to converse in Bangla, have unique experiences (i.e. starring in a movie) and survive the bureaucracy and accomplish her goals gave me hope to do the same. With several promising meetings this week, I hope my field work will begin soon!

Amar Mishti Mashi

Click here to see the rest of the photos with captions

Power of Listening

20.9.2009 -- Aseia

She chased me down the street. It was a lame day, the day before Eid. As much as I adore her, I was in no mood to talk

After school, I pass by the hotel next to my flat and practice speaking with the steps sweeper. Some days, I’m on point. Most days, I am still too slow to understand what she is saying, and she is not accustomed to simplifying her phrases for a bideshi. So most days, I pick up a few words to understand the topic, nod and smile a lot.

But every day, we walk together holding hands from her steps to my gate.

But the day before Ramadan, I was exhausted, I couldn’t put in the effort to listen and respond. As I walked past pretending not to hear her, she caught up with me, handed an envelope and ran away. “For Eid!” she said, smiling.

Inside was three pieces of jewelry. A gift from her. A gift of just spending time with her, for taking the time to listen to her. Words are powerful, so listening is just as powerful – even if you don’t understand.

Learning Script

Finally, I'm in the third and final month of Bangla class -- finally learning the script!! And it's a good class: just Hiroto, myself and our fun teacher, Pulok. Script is hard but fun! I wanted to practice my handwriting but I don't want to waste paper. What's a Bangla student to do...?

Solution:

buy a 'magic board' from the local market for 2 bucks !!

My First Iftar for Ramadan

Iftar is the evening meal during Ramadan.  From around 4-7, restaurants and food stands sell traditional Iftari food for Muslims to take home to their families.  I went to help out my friends as they sell their Iftari and was invited to participate.

Quick overview: The month of Ramadan begins at the new moon, the start of the crescent moon, of the 9^th month of the Islamic calendar.  Muslims fast from dawn to dusk all day as well as refrain from impure actions and thoughts (and smoking!).  By doing so, they are reminded of Allah with each moment of hunger and temptation.  Practicing patience, gratitude and additional prayer brings them closer to Allah.  They rise at 3 or 4 to take the morning meal, then fast until the sun sets around 7 for Iftar, the evening meal.  Back to my first Iftar…

[Click here for more pictures]

As my brothers prepared for the meal, the electricity went out.  Candles were lit and the boys hustled around in the dark.  I sat near one candle as the massive plate of muri spiced with onions, dates, garlic and chili was placed on the table.  Gia mixed lemon sharbat and filled seven glasses.  They sat and explained that they must wait for the second to last call to prayer, the signal from Allah that today’s fast is over.  About three minutes later, I hear, “Didi, khabe – ekhon!”  The muezzin’s call was clearly heard as the boys downed their lemon drink, basking in the sweetness of Allah and their first taste since dawn.  Then our hands dug into the platter of spiced crisp rice.  All you could hear was munching and breathing of seven hungry men finally breaking their fast for the day.  All I felt was the spices under my nails and their hands reaching for the same salvation.  Gia spoke, “Allah loves to see us share a plate – it brings our community together.”  I felt that too.

Towards the end of the meal, the boys were practically forcing more food down my throat.  It is this custom that I witnessed that when I share food with Bengalis, they feed my food back to me.  So, I smiled and raised a hand of full muri to Sumor’s mouth; he laughed and took the food.  Then I went around the table feeding one scoop to all the boys.  Of course, like true Bangla hospitality, they feed me a mishti each! 

It was so beautiful of them to share their meal and beliefs with me.   Each time some Bangla man on the street asked who I was, they all responded that I was their sister.  You can’t be more welcoming than that!  In one month, stay tuned for Eid – the last day of the fast!

quiet satisfaction

Now to get personal:

Today was a nice day -- I finally felt that I can feel a part of this country, not just on the outskirts.  I've had a few tough days: insecure about my project, a tad lonely, frustrated with the new culture.  My current contentment is part in due to the amazing, understanding friends and supportive family members who have talked me through it the past week.  But today was all me.

Class is going well, I feel comfortable with trying and I am forming sentences in conversation (slowly, and frequently incorrect and backwards, but forming them nonetheless!)  I like my teacher and my classmates, we make jokes and try to say random phrases: ekta din ami tomar dana katbo (I will cut your wings one day).  My favourite Bangla word is chor, a temporary island.  It made me laugh, because a temporary island can be a common occurrence.  Like Eskimos have dozens of words for 'snow,' a word for a temporary island is needed because during the rainy season, a piece of land can annually be flooded into the river and disappear.  

I study for two hours after class, attempting to perfect my Bangla with make-shift flash cards.  At noon I eat with my teachers a simple lunch and hug my cook.  On the main street to my house, I visit a dorkandar (shopkeeper) who presents a new Muslim blessing each time I visit as I purchase bottled water.  The people on the street are becoming used to me: I'm not surprising anymore (and I think they've stared enough that they could perfectly sketch my image from memory.)

For dinner tonight, I took my french friends (Crystal, Leah and Maude) to my favourite restaurant where I am friends with the owners (who recently told me that they will cry when I leave Banani - 'amra kanna korbo!')  I left my apartment at 8:15pm, the latest I've ever left.  I've been out late but my friends' drivers take me home - it's not too safe to take a rickshaw or CNG at night.  I won't lie, it took a little courage to put on my yellow and purple salwar kameez and venture out that night where there are no lampposts, only headlights and wax candles sitting on food stands.  I love this dress because its color combination reminds me of my grandmother and my mother.  The dress requires you wear an orna (one foreigner friend mockingly renamed it 'the boob scarf' because it's purpose is to hide your chest.)  The orna is longer than the length of my arms and is drapped over my chest, over my shoulders and flows behind me.

Walking into the night at 30C,  a slight breeze blew my orna back as my shadow drew my image in the shape of a superhero's cape.  I laughed to myself winding through the hanging electrical wires and speeding cars to pick up the girls.  As we stepped into Jagiur's Garden, one boy saw me and ran to the other boys to announce my arrival (Queen Sheba, anyone?)  The owners all smiled and scolded me for not visiting the past week.  The girls loved the food: saying it was better than restaurants in the bideshi (foreigner) area, Gulshan (there is apparently a Mexican restaurant that LP raves about, but I haven't heard good things.  I can't imagine Bangladeshis making good guacamole, only Mexicans and CParks can make good guac.)

Tomorrow I have a meeting with a woman at the International Organization for Migration in hopes of collaborating, networking, using resources.. anything to get started on this project!  My friend Darcy works there and is sitting in on the meeting too.  The French girls and I might head down to the Hindu market in Old Dhaka to celebrate Krishna's Birthday (or at least, one of his ten births/rebirths.)  This weekend, Darcy and I are exploring one of the many museums, one of my Bangla friends, Emy, wants to take me shopping, and I am having a girls night Saturday with Sayaka and Kyungai to watch Sex and the City with beers and some sort of Korean liquor.

It's finally becoming a home.  I have a routine, friends, and my work is (slowly) progressing. Best of all -- it's almost the end of the rainy season so it'll start becoming cooler!  But for now, I'm good in my quiet middle ground of satisfaction.  I hope you're in a good place too :)

"Baby... Shooting... Hospital" -- The Case of the Language Barrier

On Wednesday, I was going to head to Dipali’s house for a visit.  I call before I jump in a CNG (autorickshaw).  She gives the phone to her husband Barun.  It is really loud in the background and all I can understand is, “baby… shooting… hospital…”

Umm, what?

He sounded fine, not upset or stressed so I patiently wait in Dhaka traffic to get to their house.  Dipali comes down to get me, and we head to their apartment.  In her room, is Dipali, Dulal, their mother, Dulal’s wife Meethu Mammi, and her son Sudho.  He’s about 10 months old and the cutest thing.  All he does is stare at me but cries when I hold him.  I am reminded of Mum Mum: we all lounge on the master bedroom’s bed, playing with the baby.  Soon, Dipali says that we are leaving.  Dipali, Meethu Mammi, the baby and myself head downstairs, walk onto the street, down a back street and suddenly in this person’s house.  There are people running in and out of the house, yelling at each other, grabbing things.   I realize: I’m on a movie set.  Barun is a journalist but sometimes directs.  Slowly the phone conversation reveals itself: the ‘baby’ is in this episode of the soap opera and Barun is ‘shooting’ near the ‘hospital’ around the corner from the apartment.

Ooooooh!

We sit down on this bed in this large room and Dipali pushes me in front of these two young Bangladeshis, about my age.  I look at them and they turn to me and say, “Hi, we’re from Florida.”  Praise Allah – American accents!  Turns out their names are Emy and Sam, born in Bangladesh but were raised in America.  Their parents moved their business to Dhaka so they are here for bit renewing their papers.  They are awesome and we chat the whole evening.

billboard of a Bangla movie

There are actresses and actors running about, changing, putting on make-up sleeping inbetween scences.  Emy tells me that it is a soap opera that taken place during the Liberation War in 1971.  We watched one scene where a couple reveals to the parents they are married.  The father is upset, but the friend jumps into the scene with mishti to soften the blow.  Emy said that she is unimpressed by Bangladeshi cinema.  I haven't seen much and I tried to compare to Indian cinema, and she argued, "Indian cinema at least has good production quality at this point.  Here we are still stuck in the 70s.  In some movies, you can still see the hand of the sound guy holding the microphone."

It starts to rain, so we head up to this woman’s apartment.  Emy heads inside with me, thank God, because then she can translate the havoc around me.  Being the token foreigner, I frequently assume that I am being talked about, especially when I hear keys words like, "America... scholarship... ekta bochor (one year)..."  They always ask if I know Bangla, which I respond I am learning (note to self: look up the Bangla word for 'slowly').  But instead of understanding that I don't know much yet (at this point I had four classes), they still try to speak.  So the best phrase I have learned is "ami bujhi na" -- I don't understand.  Sitting around, Emy and I share our frustrations of America and BD: governments, culture, selfishness and capitalism, she’s great to talk to.  She decided, since she's here, to take some classes in the University.  There is an entry exam similar to the SATs, but here in Bangladesh, you must know English to pass the exam.

Proof of Bangla hospitality the hostess serves samosa and mishti.  Samosas are this triangle pastry stuffed with vegetables or meat, and mishti are these Munchkin-sized treats drowned in liquid sugar.  I think these alone are the reason that many Bengalis have diabetes. 

After a bit, it starts pouring and it’s getting late so Dipali insists that I stay, but I just wanted to go home.  She is nervous about sending me home by myself but I have class at 8am.  Solution: they arrange for the production boy to sit in the CNG with me all the way to my apartment, and hour ride in traffic, then go back to the shooting.  Mind you, it’s 8:30pm, it’s not that late but it’s dark and I am nervous to head back by myself.  The whole ride the production boy Alal and I sit in silence, not knowing the other’s language, bouncing through Dhaka at night, food stands lit by candlelight and just as much traffic as mid-day.  In the background is the last call to prayer of the day.  I sit back in the CNG and let the city pass by.

A Little History of Bangla

Intrigued by my language classes, I did a little research and asked around to find the history and importance of Bangla.

Bangla (sometimes refered to as Bengali) is a member of the Indic group of 

Indo Iranian or Aryan branch of the Indo–European family of languages. Oddly enough, the British Raj beginning in the mid-1800s stimulated the value of Bangla.  Authors became interested in Calcutta and Dhaka, with Calcutta being

 the capital of India at the time and Dhaka a large trading port.  English writers learned Bangla and translated literature.  The poet Rabindranath Tagore was the first Asian man to win a Nobel Prize in 1913; he was Bengali.  With the invasion and cultural control of the British, using Bangla was a way to assert their cultural heritage.

With the Indian Partition and religious diaspora (Hindus to India, Muslims to Pakistan), East Bengal (East Pakistan) was being forced by the Pakistani government to speak 'Urdu and Urdu only.'  This was the last straw: East Pakistan  created the Bangla Language Movement of 1952, the first move towards independence.  People, including students, held riots fighting for their national identity that was tied their language.  After West Pakistan did little after 500,000 people died in a cyclone, Bangladesh fought for its independence in the Liberation War in 1971.

The language is strongly tied to the culture and it's nationalism.  Upper class Bangladeshis know English pretty well, and it is a requirement for university.  Lower class Bangladeshis know a few words (prices, food).  But everyone speaks Bangla perfectly. An example of how language is tied to culture is saying, 'I go now.' In Bangla, they say, 'ami ekhon ashi' which literally means, 'now I come.'  My teacher explained that Bangladeshis do not like to end encounters.  If you say, "I go now" they will insist you stay. If you say 'I come now' it is like saying "I am moving locations away from you but I am not going anywhere."  Maybe odd to you, but there is such hospitality that 'going' implied that the friendship has ended.

While I'm still struggling with the sounds, my vocabulary is growing and I hope to be comfortable soon!

First Day of Bangla Class!

First day of class!  I woke up and Skyped with my love love: great way to start the day (girl, I can't get over how pretty your hair looks on Skype!!)  I took a rickshaw to school, it takes about 5 minutes.  My language school is called HEED,  the language centre is a small part of a larger NGO that works towards development.  It is the top two floors of a five story building.  There is a guard that unlocks the door for the students – quite secluded.

my mother requested a picture from my first day of class, like when I was in elementary school

I head upstairs and meet a man from Chicago who has been studying here for a few months.  One girl from Japan arrives, with her friend from Turkey.  Two students from Myammar arrive, then a Japanese boy arrives.  The principal, Shupti (or Susan) announces where each class will be held.  I am in the Phonetic A class with Baris from Turkey and Horoto from Japan (he is actually half Bengali, half Japanese but grew up in Japan and doesn’t know much Bangla.  Susan said there are normally more students but because it’s the summer, everyone is off on vacation traveling.  There is a wall of the passport photos of students from the past year.  I am the latest from America.  Most students seem to be from Australia or America, a lot from Korea and Scandinavia (Norway, Denmark, etc.)  About 40 countries altogether.

the HEED Language Centre building

The three of us head upstairs to this back room with AC (praise Allah!).  Our teacher is Pulak Chatterji (pronounced ‘pu-lock’).  First, as Pulak hands out our textbooks, he gives us some tips on Bangla culture.   Just as soon as I grabbed my book, he tells us that it is impolite to grab things with your left hand.  Guess which hand I grabbed my book with?  Then he says it’s impolite to cross one leg over the other.  Baris and I look down at our legs, and slowly uncross them, laughing at ourselves.  “Because you are foreigners, Bangladeshis will understand the mistake but it is still impolite,” says Pulak.  This might be the most difficult action of living here: I’m not sure I know how to sit without crossing my legs!

Our first month is dedicated solely to phonetics and learning structure.  For the first half, we practiced the sounds.  For phonetics, we are 8 of the 11 vowels and 28 of the 39 consonant sounds.  I remember most of the vowels from Kolkata but the consonants are a whole other ball game.There are essentially five sounds based on where your tongue goes: velar (tongue at back of throat), palatal (flat tongue on roof), retroflex (tip of tongue on roof), dental (tongue to teeth), labial (no tongue, all lips).

So there we were, three foreigners, shouting these new sounds, practicing the shapes of our mouth and placement of tongue.  The best way to learn a language is to never get embarrassed.  Never turn red for sounding silly – always try!

the Bangla alphabet

We take a cha (tea) break.  When I visited the school to register, Dipali must have asked the school to provide breakfast and lunch for me.  She must have been worried that I wouldn’t eat! So Susan told me that I should go eat my breakfast in the kitchen.  I'm super lucky,  I have no cook in my apartment and I don’t know how to cook anything here so it's nice to know where I'm getting food from everyday.  The cook is adorable.  I love the way older Bengali women are very affectionate.  I always outreach my arms to them and pat them on the shoulder, and they always take me by the arms, pinch my cheek.  I love old people, because I think society forgets them and they long for human touch. And as we know: “I have an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it” (Audrey Hepburn).

We return to class and practice sentence structure and begin with the root and present tense of verbs.  The little bit that I picked up in Kolkata has been helping me a lot, I’m grateful.  Hearing the sounds, more words and phrases are coming back to me so hopefully my vocab will grow quickly.

Instead of writing a novel like I normally do, I'll break up my first day into installments over the next week!!