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.
