On arrival at Zia airport, I thought about the last time I was here. 41 years ago.
41. Wow.
I saw the Air Force Base at which I must have landed, a chubby one year-old coming to see his uncle get married. Air travel must have been glamorous back then, in 1971, even (especially) in the subcontinent.
Visiting the graves of my ancestors, I felt privileged to step in the sand shifting over everything. Peaceful is a cliche for cemeteries but what else to say when you can hear birds and the incredible lack of noise smack in the middle of a capital city of a nation of 160 million people? My aunt’s stories regaled me about their past. My favourite aunt who passed away in England not many years ago, had a smaller trapezoidal plot, possibly to make the best use of space near her cherished husband.
We travelled in a microbus through town, visiting family and friends. Banani district’s shops and stores we’d visit to get fruit, coffee, water, a haircut, and shoes. One early morning, my Uncle Reza took my father and me for a brisk walk, four turns around Gulshan Lake which was really a reservoir which sat between some of the choicest real-estate in Dhaka offering a pretty view to nearby residents. We chatted with neighbours and felt the brisk December air burn off as the sun emerged: by 7:30 we had put our winter hats into our pockets.
Winter hats? It was cold. Most rooms are unheated because the temperature only drops for a few weeks a year. On my visit, 12-degree Celsius felt a lot colder as I bundled up in the guest room under two blankets. It was delightful waking up and wanting a hot drink and exercise.
Sightseeing wasn’t the point of this visit. The one glaring exception was seeing the houses of parliament designed by famous Philadelphia architect Louis Kahn. Kahn’s signature primary shape designs and mysterious life made him the Gehry of his era. His son shot a documentary about his father when it was found he had multiple wives and families. The film rushed through the masterwork in Kahn’s oeuvre, these houses of parliament, shaped like a lotus flower opened up, sitting on the still water. The design is circles and equilateral triangles, spiralling rotundas, and radial rooms. At its centre, we were admitted onto the Assembly Floor. My aunt, who used to have one of the nicest offices in the building and who now runs a high-profile NGO, used her connections to get her son and me way beyond where visitors are allowed, into the inner-workings of this beautiful building. Out of session, in the dead of winter, quiet, misty bright, soulful, the buildings made an indelible impression on me. And talking to MPs and librarians and staff, they attested to its excellence in both form and function. No photos allowed; all the better so as to enjoy the moment and instead point to my favourite images from the Web.
Bangladesh is in a lovely time warp. It is not at all like India. It certainly doesn’t feel as perilous as Pakistan either. Admittedly, I was vicariously seeing Dhaka life through the eyes of a well-off gentleman in Banani/Gulshan; but there was no taint. The country has something right. Its people are less caught up in material aspiration, in insane progress, and in putting itself on the world stage. People don’t think about Bangladesh except possibly regarding tragic loss of life during typhoons, extreme poverty, and textiles, but there is so much more. And for me, that ‘more’ shall be Chittagong and tea country and, dare I say, Sunderbans tigers?
My NGO aunt repeated, “41 years?” Yes, I said, “it’s been 41 years since I’ve been to Bangladesh. Since I visited the homeland of my father and my father’s father.” She corrected me, “Well actually, you’ve never been to Bangladesh. Back then, it was East Pakistan.” Her son objected, “That’s a technicality.” But she was right; I had never been to Bangladesh.

Houses of Parliament of Dhaka (all credit to photo owner)

Exterior of Houses of Parliament





