Rip Van Winkle

 His grandfather had moved with the capital from the pre-partition days where, five decades later he was born. He grew up in a family that believed in traditional Bengali values from both parts of Bengal. His career later demanded a change of capitals. But the desire to visit his roots remained with him. In fact it grew stronger with the years.

 Now when his work had brought him to Bangladesh he was overjoyed.  This trip would be a culmination of all that he had heard and learned about it. For the next four days he would live his dreams. He would imbibe the very essence of Bangladesh first hand and carry it back for his eager parents.

What he hadn't bargained for was the looks-the peculiar, furtive glances that he received from all those around him the minute he opened his mouth. The liftman and the bellboy grinned at his obvious idiosyncrasy. The receptionist gave him a once over and did a quick mental assessment –must be one of "those" and continued with his job.  Not one word of that dialect would part from his lips. Their unspoken words questioned the level of his sanity-what could have gone wrong with him?

This perplexed him more. All his life he has heard his parents speak it. In fact they had two different sets of dialects at home- one that everybody spoke and the other reserved for their parents. Nobody even attempted to infringe on their domain. It was a language that belonged to ”the previous generation". But their frequent reminiscence and strong urge to hold on to that tradition had left its mark on this young impressionable mind. Unknown to him he had picked up the nuances till one day he could speak it fluently. Unknown to him too he had quietly but surely slipped into a time warp.

But things were not working out as planned. The wide roads, the swanky cars and the bright neon lights were contrary to what he had in mind. And the rows of concrete and certainly the language had forced him to think otherwise. The first food joints and innumerable Thai and Chinese restaurants also contributed to it. He had thought and brushed aside at the airport came back carefully to him. Bangladesh had changed, evolving with the times to become another metropolis of the world. He needed to grow up and fast.

Next day over lunch the rest of his dreams were shattered. An incongruous plastic box bearing the name of a Thai restaurant was offered to him. "It will be a working lunch"-he remembered having said that but why Thai food that he could also have back home. But the exigencies of work pushed aside all thoughts of mouthwatering Bengali delicacies  that he desired so much-streaming rice hilsa in mustard sauce the succulent prawns, that he had heard were better this side of Bengal.

Things were going wrong horribly.  Attitudes change; habits also die a death but monuments? They stand as sentinels guarding the progress of time. Sadarghat seemed a safe bet. It couldn’t have changed much- a few launches perhaps. And the "river"-no, it couldn’t have changed course! But the events of the past few days made him cautious- he no longer ruled out the slimmest of possibilities.

The few phaetons that piled on the road pleased him. At least there was something that he could relate to. But he had not bargained for the chaotic traffic of old Dhaka. And the crowd was maddening. After a hurried look he went back to the safety of the car. The countless launches waiting to set sail brought home the truth-he couldn’t place a finger anything in Dhaka. Everything was just beyond his reasoning. But he had only wanted to take back memories with him?

The faint fish smell that emanated from the hilsa in his suitcase reassured him. He had salvaged some of his dreams after all. And what better way to celebrate this. Sweet memories.