A Fistful of Sunshine

Today I saw a young boy with the saddest expression. Whatever sorrow his eyes did not hold, his face did. There were lines etched across his face- lines that looked like tears. They weren’t very obvious lines, but I could see their shadows. He looked at me, but wasn’t looking at me- the sadness on his face looked past me, at everything else. His expression was familiar; I’ve seen many people on the streets of Dhaka with a similarly forlorn expression. It’s a vacant, hopeless loneliness that stares but doesn’t see, that cries but isn’t heard. This boy’s gaze held something deeper- a Grand Canyon of hopelessness. Looking at him, an image floated into my mind from about two years ago.

Manhattan, summer of 2005. After work, I was walking downtown to meet up with a friend. Passing by a McDonald’s, I gave into momentary hunger (as gross as McDonald’s is, I really do love the fries…) and walked in. As I sat there eating my fries, I watched the people around me (as usual). One woman sitting a table away from me caught my eye. She must have been in her 70’s, the wrinkled black skin on her face was worn out and sagging. She sat there eating the sorriest looking meal I had seen in awhile. Her clothes were shabby, and she had a battered broad-brimmed hat sitting next to her. She looked up and around a few times, and there it was- an inexplicably sad expression that seemed to look through or past people. It was a look of utter loneliness. I wanted to get up and hug her, hold her tightly, make her feel better. But of course, one doesn’t hug random strangers. And definitely not in New York City, of all places. Something in her face, in the way she looked at people, cried out loneliness and despair. It wasn’t that she was eating alone- I myself was eating alone, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t have such an expression on my face. Perhaps it was the way she looked around, perhaps it was in how she ate very slowly, as if the food is the only company she could ever have and so had to prolong its stay. Whatever it was, it emanated from her like something tangible; and I had to fight my desire to get up and hug her. I didn’t even talk to her. It’s been ingrained in me that strangers in New York City do not want to be bothered by other strangers. You don’t look them in the eyes (though I break that rule all the time), and you don’t talk to them. So I left the place feeling utterly dejected. There were millions and millions of people all over the world with such expressions. Millions who have nothing but emptiness filling their lives; so much so that they can’t help but stare out into the world with such vacancy in their souls, dripping from each and every glance, each and every blink of their eyes. Where are their little bits of happiness?

I believe that happiness comes as pit-stops along the scrawny little mess of a road we call Life. Sometimes we happen to stop because we were distracted and needed to find our way back and end up finding a little bit of happiness instead. Other times, we run for miles upon empty miles, searching for that pit-stop, but never realizing that we pass our chances just around the corner. Every time we stop at these pit-stops, we enjoy blocks of perfect moments that make up what we call ‘happiness.’ And every time, we will move on with the hope that we can return someday but we never can. In the chance that we do return to the same location, or with the same person, we will always find that things are a little different than before; things have been shuffled around a bit. Or sometimes, so many things have changed that we can’t even recognize our own perfect moments anymore… kind of like how there are places in Dhaka that are unrecognizable from a few years ago because of construction! The perfect moments will always remain, but we have to know where to find them… we can’t let emptiness eat away at us because then we’ll end up forgetting how to find those moments… or worse, we might forget that perfect moments really exist. Happiness comes in those little bottles marked ‘perfect moments,’ but we have to know they exist, that we can always find them, no matter in what shape or form, or for however long or short period of time.

I think about that old woman and the little boy I saw today and wonder… did they ever get the chance to find perfect moments in their lives? Are they searching so hard for their pit-stops that they’re overlooking the very things they are searching for? Maybe they’ll notice the next one coming up…maybe this time they’ll look at it, instead of through it..... After all, for all the complications and evil in this world, life really is full of such moments if we realize-- we just have to take our fistful of sunshine and hold it close whenever we can.

City of No Lights...

Last week, Cyclone Sidr hit Bangladesh. On looking at the bright sunshine and calm blue skies of this afternoon, one would never have imagined what hell had wrought through just 7 days ago, leaving the shambles that remain all over the country today. And in all of this, I am ashamed to say I have done an insignificant amount to help so far…

On Thursday night (November 15^th), I had gone with my friend to see 2 of Dhaka’s great musicians (yes, maybe that’s just my opinion) -Arnob and Andrew Morris- in concert at the Dhaka Club. Apparently, these clubs have restricted access; Dhaka Club being particularly infamous for its exclusivity. Lucky for me, the American passport would have come handy if my friend’s father had failed in getting me in. That morning when I had woken up, the air had felt much cooler and wetter than other days. There was a continuous drizzle all morning and afternoon- reminding me of the rainy days in New York. I had heard warnings of the approaching “bad weather,” but it all went unheeded in my head. I was looking forward to seeing two amazing people in concert, one of whom has become an inspiration for me and my writings. The incoming cyclone was far from our minds as we headed to the Dhaka Club. In typical hypocritical fashion all that we worried about was hearing the song “Tomar Jonno” being played that night, and not what the increasing wind and rain might be bringing. The concert began late, and while we waited I received text messages from a colleague of mine informing of the increasing bad weather and to “be careful” when going home. I then thought of what I heard in the news earlier that morning- that the southern part of the country was in grave danger, and more was coming. During the concert, I looked over the heads of the musicians at the window and could see the trees blowing violently. At about midnight, the audience was informed that the concert had to be cut short due to the inclement weather, and out of consideration for the hundreds of people losing their homes as we sat there,… the loss of electricity… What I found appalling was the cries of “just one more song!” even after such a statement was made about the impropriety of such a concert going on despite what was going on. There were a few drunken cries of a similar nature, but the band had more sense than to carry on… I admit to hypocrisy, but I felt that was just plain idiocy…

When we left the club, the air was quite cold, and a mixture of rain and wind made it very difficult to see. It was dark in the house, as the electricity had gone out awhile before. My aunt told me that the driver’s wife had called from his village- their tin roof had been blown off, their crops were gone, and they were in a temporary shelter. One of the women who work in the house (I refuse to call them ‘servants’) and whose village is in the south, hadn’t heard from her brother or her parents, and had no way of knowing if her little boy was safe…. I lay in the silence of the room and listened to the winds outside. At times, I heard branches breaking and falling. I was tired beyond words, and the last thought I remember having was that I was so lucky to be inside a warm and safe room, only listening to the raging storm outside,… only listening. The next morning we found that the electricity had still not returned. In fact, the entire country was without electricity, and there was no telling when it would return. My phone ran out of charge within a couple of hours. The whole of Bangladesh was in darkness; generators were running out- the city of so many people and so much life had been silenced. A blanket had been thrown over it.

There was no more rain, but the air was steeped with something- you could smell the storm all around. We could only imagine what had happened in the rest of the country in just a few hours as news trickled in of uprooted trees, cattle, crops. As fate would have it, the 16^th of November was my niece’s very first birthday, and a party had been planned for weeks. We carried on with setting up for the party as planned, tying streamers to balloons, hanging them up, and setting out plenty of candles. Our guests arrived on time, and we had a candle-lit birthday party where people entered and said general hellos, peering at each other’s faces, trying to recognize familiar ones. I felt it wasn’t quite right; to enjoy ourselves like this, to eat good food, knowing what was happening throughout the country, knowing how many thousands and thousands had become homeless, orphaned, landless. But as was put to me quite blatantly, what else was there to do? I did not have the capability to go out and physically do anything right then. Perhaps I could have found some way, though….

The full extent of the damage Sidr had done came to us within the upcoming days. People have nothing left anymore. Their crops, their cattle, their homes, their very lands have been turned upside down, uprooted and left shattered. Relief and aid are coming, but there are so many… too many. Unfortunately, I have only helped one person so far who has been affected by the storm. The storm has uprooted the massive trees in his home in such a way that they look as if someone had used their fingers to twist and upturn them. The man broke into tears when talking about what was left- or wasn’t. There is more to do, as there always will be. I will join in on relief work, but that makes me wonder… how much (or how little) can we really do? At least with the floods, many had their homes still standing, or were able to save their livestock before the waters hit. But now,… now there was nothing but twisted and tattered remains. What crops will grow next year? The guava trees, the amra trees, they have all been destroyed. What will people live on? What is the solution??

An amusing musing on music (and Muse?)

I’m happy just because, I found out I am really no one.

Yes, I got quite a kick out of that title up there. Would have been better if I had said “on Music and Muse and music in general,” as in referring to the bands named Music and Muse… but I’m not talking about them so I’ll just stop myself from making silly statements simply for the sake of alliteration and wordplay. In fact, I’m sure my musing will be anything but amusing.

I love wordplay. And I’m happy to say I know quite a few others who do, too. At least two of my really close friends are ones who I can call up with a statement like, “is it too redundant to say ‘you are such a cantankerous curmudgeon!, or do you think I could pass that by people without them realizing?” without worrying about what the person will think of me. In fact, I’m guaranteed a good response to that. (Yes, I can say that – if for no other reason than that most people won’t even know what it means… Also, because in such a case, cantankerous works more as an enhancer than a redundancy). It’s amazing what words can do, really. What I love particularly are those that have double meanings and when used with that aim. Or when words are used as literal meanings in sentences that are quite obviously figurative. It gives such a humorous twist to what people say and what people mean. I think this is why I love children’s literature- or rather, the study of children’s literature. It is children who make literal things that are figurative, and that helps us see how absurd our world really is. And of course, absurdity makes the world a better place. No wonder Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is one of my most favorite works….

Ahh yes, music. That was the original intention of this posting, not wordplay. For most people, it is the inspiration of life… maybe I should say “for many people,” actually. When I come across those who have a very detached outlook towards music, I always wonder what it is that really makes them tick; what really drives their emotions, if not music. Music is what feeds my soul when touch cannot. Music is something that is always there to set a soul to fire, or subdue its tears, or simply lull one into serenity.

At The Bottom of Everything. As a rule, Bright Eyes takes me back to the first year of graduate school, where I would sit and try to write my final papers surrounded by Conor Oberst’s broken voice, and memories of a pleasant weekend gone by. Sometimes it was hard to concentrate because his voice is so distracting, but at the same time, it was the best to write to. It’s not just his voice, or just the way he incorporates his music. It’s that soul- that aura, that tugging feeling at the bottom of your heart when you hear his voice and it wrenches you- and you know that soul is all there is at the bottom of everything. The rawness of his voice, the stark reality of the words and images he creates- those are what give his music ‘soul.’ Anyone who knows me knows that U2 is the love of my life. But there is one song that is the love of my life- the song that I want to marry (whatever that may mean to you.) It’s Bright Eyes’ Easy Lucky Free. This song epitomizes all that is beautiful in the world. All that is beautiful and all that is broken and sad at the same time- one seems to go hand in hand with the other; and for me this song is it. It is sadness, it is heartbreak, it is beauty, it is sorrow, it is happiness, it is the in-between, it is love, it is life. It gives my life soul.

Into the caverns of tomorrow with just our flashlights and our love, we must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge.

i have to update this thing more properly....

Since those last emails, I haven't written many more worth noting. The next one I wrote was all about asking for funds for flood victims.... my friends and I bought bags of rice - massive, 80kg bags- and distributed into smaller bags for about 100 families at a 'bosti' in Banani, Dhaka, called ‘Purbo Matha.’ A 'bosti' is the makeshift housings for people who really have no land of their own. They move around from place to place, making their homes from tin and bamboo, or whatever else they can find or afford. They are usually asked to move off areas at will, and usually can be found living on the outskirts of nice areas. Because of the floods, the people from this bosti were living on the side of the road, using plastic tarp sheets and bamboo to make shelter... my friends and I visited them a number of times before the floods hit badly. My friends found this bosti via this little boy named Hosen, who was part of the crew of little boys who collect and sort garbage. All the garbage disposed of by households are collected and/or sorted- and as awful a job it is for anyone, it’s obviously more distressing to see an 8 or 9 year old boy do it, for whom school is not an option…

Every time we went to Purbo Matha, the bosti kids would come running up to our rickshaws, or running alongside, with beaming smiles radiating on their faces, saying “Apa! Bhalo asen?” (‘Apa’ is the term for ‘elder sister’; ‘bhalo asen’ is ‘are you well’) …And every time we asked them in return how they were, they did the half-nod and smilingly replied, “bhalo.” It always fascinated me that these poor children, who barely had enough to make one meal a day of rice and daal (lentils), were so ready with their smiles, so ready with the answer that they were doing well, even if in reality that was questionable. They would run up to us and take our hands and melt us with their smiles. And then would begin the onslaught of “Apa, amar akta chobi tulen na...” (Apa, please take a picture of me…) The requests for pictures were never-ending. Some of the little girls were particularly aggressive, and would show up every fifteen seconds with another sibling or infant relative, asking for a picture with the little one. The little boys never were keen on pictures; it was always the little girls. We did take tons of pictures, but it never was enough… after our visits, we would sit in the tiny little stalls and have tea and puris. The children would show us how they travel from their flooded shacks on the river to their temporary housing on the sidewalk. They would use these floatation devices created from large cement bags, filled with Styrofoam or the like to keep them afloat. One of our friends was even brave enough to go on a “boat ride” on one of those things…!

The packaging of rice into small bags was work, but fun work. Our fingers were kind of sore from tying the raw string around the bags, but every bit of discomfort was worth the while when we saw the people in the bosti later on and how happy they were just for this little bit of help. We had previously asked them to arrange matters such that fights and arguments won’t break out over how many bags of rice and how many families and etc, and after overcoming the first few obstacles, we were pleasantly surprised to find they really did take care of it- and it was mainly three or four women who did so. But on the whole, the distribution went well, and we left feeling like we have finally done something worthwhile in this world….

June 17th entry...

From the next mass email...

I went to Appi's (my grandmother's) grave a week and a half ago... the last time I had been to that cemetery, to that very spot, I was standing next to her; we had gone to see Nana's (my grandfather's) grave. She and I had worn matching saris; hers was pink and mine was black, both with gorgeous stitching on the ends... Who would have thought that 4 years later I'd be visiting both of their graves? It was weird to stand there and think that her body was there, underneath that mound of earth and grass........ About four days ago, while in Rongpur (the northern part where my dad's family is from), I woke up feeling very weird and continued to feel very weird all day… Nothing interested me or appealed to me; I didn't want to be around anyone, and just seemed very listless… What is strange is that I felt exactly that way 4 years ago when Appi died. I was halfway around the world, yet the entire day I felt weird and sad, and it was only much later that day when I heard about her. Anyway, I was visiting one of my dad's sisters when another aunt called to let me know that Appi's twin sister had passed away. I wasn't ever really close to this grandmother; she was simply Mejonanu, the one who looked exactly like Appi, sounded very much like her, but seemed worlds different simply because she wasn't Appi. She had been sick for a few weeks, and since I arrived in Dhaka, I kept telling my aunts to take me to see her… she was in the hospital, my aunts were sick, and nobody seemed to be able to take me.. but I should have made more of an effort because now all I'm left with is regrets. I wanted to see her because it would seem like Appi was still here; I have never seen twins look as alike as they did. I should have stayed in Dhaka, instead of going to Rongpur. I know there's no point in wallowing in regrets, but I can't help it…… and today was the "milad," which is basically a gathering of everyone to say prayers for the deceased one. It was painful to see the only sibling left of my grandmother's family. Their youngest sister is the only one still alive, and it shook me to the bone when she held my hand and looking into her face I saw my mother… Of course my mom looks very much like Appi, but I hadn't counted on seeing the resemblance in my mom's aunt's face….

So my trip to Rongpur… We left Saturday morning; the roads were slightly less crowded being that it was a holiday. The trees looked like magnified parsley leaves. The "Krishachura" trees are my favorite; they have long flat leaves and bright red flowers that reach all the way up to the tallest branches. On windy days, the entire road will be splattered with red petals. It's a breathtaking sight. On the way to the bus station, I looked at people around and tried to imagine what they are doing or where they're going. I saw a local bus pass by on the other side, and one face struck out at me. It was a woman, holding a little child, sitting in a cramped space and bearing the most agonized expression on her face. It was a Saturday morning, which is usually a holiday (the holidays are Friday and Saturday); she looked like she was taking her child to a doctor,… of course I'm just speculating. She might have been going anywhere, but the pain on her face… the intense worry that was writ all over made me wonder. Here I was heading to my grandparents' house, where no grandparents are present anymore, but to a house that held the other half of my memories of a childhood in Bangladesh. And here was another woman, burdened with the weight of who knows what, heading for who knows where…..

It's always an interesting journey. Takes about 6 hours; there is only one major road (you can call it a highway but it's nowhere near our highways) and it's a fairly narrow one used by people, rickshaws, buses, cows, goats, chickens, trucks, cars, and anything that moves. The entire road is about almost as big as any of our two lane roads, and the only way to get around is to blast your horn to announce your arrival, slide by the oncoming vehicles without throwing your own vehicle off the side of the steep road, and make sure you don't hit anything while you speed at 60 mph. It's real fun. Much more of a thrill than any one of our theme parks. Especially when you see a truck or a bus coming at you at the same speed you're going and you have to swerve off just in time to pass it by. Dodging bullets just might be easier… ;) At one point we overtook an ambulance, and we swerved by literally within inches of it; maybe we should have swapped passengers with patients instead..!! The dividing white line in the middle is really only there for show.. it's not like anyone pays attention to those, let alone traffic lights. It's always amusing to watch the cars ahead of us try to squirm out of a traffic jam to cross the vehicles in front of them. They look like impatient little insects, caught behind predators, trying to but afraid of getting around them. We traveled through "towns", marked by a sudden onslaught of shops and rickshaws, and little pot-bellied children standing on the side of the road, staring at the passing buses. The scenery in between the towns varies between endless rice paddies and tiny "grams" or villages… houses made of bamboo and jute. Roughly the size of a small sized room in any house in the US, these houses in the grams hold entire extended families in some cases....

The house in Rongpur is where my dad and all of his siblings had grew up in. They were all born in the town, and my memory doesn't hold a "first time" impression of the house. Just as I don't remember ever learning to speak, I don't remember ever first seeing the house… but with every visit, we always held an anticipation of special times to be had. The house is now very very old; probably about 60 or 70 years old. The outside has been stained with mossy growth; year after year of rainfall has left their marks. The garden behind the house used to be one of my many favorites; my grandmother would take me to pick eggplants and tomatoes from her garden. The first room we always enter is our grandparents'… they're not there anymore, but the cemetery where they are buried is just visible from the window, through all the banana trees, the mango trees, the jackfruit trees, the coconut trees, the papaya trees,… There is a balcony type area in the front of the house; a few stairs lead up to the front door. To all of us cousins, that was the best play area. It was our airplane, our ship, our car, our bedroom, our kitchen, our treasure chest. We would jump off the sides of the stairs thinking it was such a great feat; little did we realize that we only jumped a foot and a half. My cousin and I sat there for awhile; seeing our childhoods being played back in our memories, and wistfully recalled every single moment. While we were there, the main water supply experienced problems, and we had to have all the water in the house be pumped through a tube-well (I'll have pictures soon-ish). And there's this lime tree…. My other favorite thing about the house. I love how it smells, the leaves and the limes. It stands just by the side door of the house, a perfect greeting every time we go home.

We visited a number of people and relatives while there, and I'll write another day about a bad experience. It leaves me ashamed of my people, but I'll have to share it with you just because it's so bizarre. But that's for another day… I also visited my cousin's grandfather; my dad's younger brother's father-in-law. Apparently my dad was the one who made the match happen between my uncle and my aunt. This Nana (grandfather) used to be my dad's teacher; he still calls him "Sir," which is the appropriate mode of address for one's teacher. This Nana has a white beard down to nearly the middle of his chest, and greatly reminds me of the pictures of my own Nana. So he asked my other cousin about her parents and how everyone was. Then he turned to me and said, "And to me, Mahbub (my dad) is…" his voice cracked and he paused for a few seconds. When he next spoke, he had gained command of his voice again, but I could see the tears in his eyes and sense a tremor in his speech. "Won't he come?" he asked me in the most painfully endearing way, as if nobody had wanted to see someone else so badly in their entire lives. It made me tear up inside… he said, "there are about 100 something students that leave Rongpur Jela School (the school where he taught and where my dad and his brothers went) every year… but your father… everytime he was in the country, he would come see me, and bring your mother with him. Everytime." He went on to talk about how much my dad and his brothers respected him, and continue to call him "Sir" to this day…. It was really beautiful to see how much this man respects my dad, and always had…. I always enjoy going to these peoples' houses; the people of the 'grandparent generation,' as I like to call them. Maybe it's just because I was so close to mine that I feel this way, but I love talking to them and seeing what they have seen; all the things that their lives have passed through… in the last few days, I have learned more about how respected and loved my parents are than ever before,…and that's really something else.

June 7th entry- Arrival in Dhaka

The first email...

The familiar stickiness seemed to engulf me as soon as we stepped off the plane and onto the passage connecting the plane to the terminal. We hadn't been out of the plane for even three whole minutes when my hair started to become frizzier and more unruly, and my clothes started to feel like a second (and uncomfortably thick) skin. I'd met a Canadian fellow while waiting for our 2-hour delayed flight in Heathrow Airport, and 3 American guys coming to Bangladesh on UN work. As I quickly became used to my surroundings, I wondered what the first impressions for these guys on our country would be. Of course I didn't have the presence of mind to get their contact information! That would have been an interesting experience, to show them around Dhaka and watch their experiences firsthand... Anyway, for the first time I stood on the "Foreign Passport" line- comparatively smaller, but moved just as slowly as the other lines. I don't know why they don't hire people who have better and faster typing skills... Good thing is that you can do anything or get anywhere in B'desh as long as you know people; I got out in a quarter of the expected time because of a gentleman I had befriended during the flight. He's a businessman, and gave me and the girl who sat next to me all his phone numbers, so we can tell our parents and visit him and his family. He went on about family and parents, and how Bengali parents live for their children, no matter what age, and how in general he has noticed that the girls tend to care more for the parents than the boys.... it was amusing. I thought about how nearly all Bengali parents say the same thing; and how they tend to hold on to their offspring for as long as they can, refusing to let go even when they get married.....

Stepping outside the airport, I felt like I was being undressed by hundreds of eyes... very uncomfortable, to say the least.... then again, you get used to it after a day. ;) But it was nothing compared to the extreme discomfort of jeans sticking to my skin.. I looked around, seeming to see my cousins, aunts, uncles, my grandmother, all waiting for me... In each and every stranger's face, I saw them waiting for me with expectant eyes, already breaking into dazzling smiles in anticipation. Of course I knew that they weren't there, and wouldn't be. I knew that the aunts and cousins I was looking for weren't there, I knew my grandmother has been gone these past 4 years, but I looked and saw the same familiar expectancy in all of these people's eyes. I saw them straining to look past others' shoulders, at loved ones they haven't seen in 3, 5 or even 10 years. It's a feeling that cannot be described. It simply is.... And so is my arrival at Banani, the house that holds all the treasure chests of childhood's imaginations, the love of my late grandmother, the innocence of being children. I was born in Dhaka, and basically was raised in this house. Sure we lived in Saudi Arabia, but spent an equal amount of time here, shuttling back and forth in my childhood; making me feel like this is indeed the only house I grew up in. My favorite place in the whole world is the veranda of this house; I seem to remember being a 6 year old, following in my brother's footsteps and sticking our heads through the railing bars, trying to pick the guavas from the tree that was just out of reach. I remember the millions of games we played on that balcony, eight or nine of us cousins and siblings, limbs running all over the place, creating the most strangest and most fun games out of nothingness. Walking into the house, I first stepped into the room on the left; the one that belonged to my Appi, my grandmother. Four years ago, I had stayed with her here, for almost 2 months she was my roommate. I looked at the bed; seeing something of her sitting on the bed, curled up on the chair, smiling at me as I walked in. I then walked to the balcony, and I saw her again in my mind; I saw her walking to the railing, standing there looking down, hoping her children are coming home..... they asked me later that night if I wanted to sleep in her room, but I couldn't. I walk around in the room several times a day; I stare at the shelves and wardrobes, at her "almirah" that forever contained the most precious and most amazing things our children's world had ever seen...... My little cousins go for walks in the evenings and collect little flowers; and I remember it was just yesterday that I did the same with Appi; as a little girl holding her hand and going for a "morning walk," collecting the most enchanting smelling flowers.....

One of my aunts live on the fringes of Dhaka city; even reaching her home is a unique experience. The busy "Airport Road" leads into the most congested and busy little road I have ever seen. It's hardly bigger than an alleyway, but there are countless shops on each side, and countless people of all ages and sizes thronged on all sides. Rickshaws, bicycles, people, cars, all jostling for road space. Piles of garbage lined up here and there, people trekking through them trying to make a living somehow... I saw this little boy, in a tattered moldy looking yellow shirt, a pair of torn shorts that are much too big for him, walking along the garbage piles, trailing a stick. I wondered then about circumstance; that he is where he is simply because he was born into it. I wondered what his future would be; probably working as an errand boy in some middle class or upper class household, good for being a more fortunate child's playmate, but held off at a very significant distance. Or perhaps he would become a driver, or perhaps a gatekeeper. Only good for responding to someone else's beckoning; not even allowed to sit on the couches in the houses he would work in. Such a future is not one that would be something any of us would dream of.....

and so it begins...

I have finally given into the world of blogging.... I figure this is the best way to share my thoughts with the world, and not deal with silly wanna-be ones like Xanga (sorry, Xanga!) that I used to have many moons ago...

I left NY to live and work in Dhaka for a few months back on May 31st, 2007. I have been sending email updates (long, boring ones!) to all my unwilling friends and family members... but figured this is a good way to post all my thoughts and such without having to write lengthy emails that people might not have time to read or might not care to. I was originally supposed to go back to NY on September 29th, but extended my stay until January 21st because of the really fantastic time I've been having here... there is more work to be done....

I'm about to post my emails here so all the "writing" will be in one place together... and in between, I'll post poems and thoughts as they come..... and there will be plenty. ;)

Enjoy.