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.