21/11/08 My neighbors

There are days here when I don’t spend more than ten minutes inside my flat from the moment I arrive home till the moment I go to sleep. As soon as I get home from the office, my neighbors pounce, and so begins my evening...

When they hear my footsteps on the stairs, Momo, Rafat and Laboni (the kids from next door and their fifteen-year old ‘helper’) come spilling out of their flat to say hello, then follow me into my flat. The first time this happened, I was little bit taken aback – after all, it’s such an un-English thing to do, to wander into someone’s home uninvited, and rifle through their things, asking countless questions about where things are from and how much they cost and whether I could buy an (insert random item of clothing, make-up, jewellery, crockery here) for them the next time I’m in Dhaka. But I’ve grown used to the company of the kids from next door, their mother, Ratna, and pretty much all the women in a 20 meter radius of my flat. They come over to my flat to chat about what everyone has done on that particular day (either housework or studying in their case, going to the office in mine), what everyone has eaten that day (always bhat – or boiled rice – for them, usually bhat for me too), and what everyone will be doing that evening (they will generally be staying at home and cooking, and I will either be cooking at home or at Ollie’s flat).

One of the first things we were told during induction was that the concept of privacy is somewhat different here. This made me a bit nervous, as I’ve always thought of myself as someone who really needs her own space. However, to my great surprise I’ve come to depend on these small exchanges (for instance, now that it is Eid ul-Azha and everyone has gone back to their villages, I feel horribly alone!). I don’t know how to fill my evenings anymore, unless my free time is interspersed with tea and snacks next door, or shouted conversations between balconies, or a 20-minute explanation of who is who in the photos I brought from home, or a visit to one of the houses across the way. Given that my Bangla is still rudimentary, to put it politely, my conversation certainly lacks any je ne sais quois, and the same subjects are always discussed: my country, my marital status, my job, how long I will stay, whether I’m interested in marrying a Bangladeshi man, and whether I or my parents will choose who I marry, in that order.

But none of this seems to matter. My neighbors treat me with such genuine curiosity and kindness that I cannot seem to say no, when they ring my door bell and want me to teach them card games, or let them try on my English clothes, or come over for tea.
- Momo is my lifeline – she’s nine years old, and has enough English that she can serve as a translator when my Bangla comes to a juddering halt.
- Her brother Rafat is five, and completely beautiful. I’ve never seen a kid eat so much sugar in all my days (literally, by the handful, straight from the jar), and remain pleasant.
- Laboni, their helper, speaks very little English and is generally ordered around by everyone. She’s feisty though, and when she wants something (like having a go with my skipping rope), she’ll get it.
- Hanan is Momo and Rafat’s father. I don’t see him too much, as he works late, but he is very mild mannered, and is always scolding his kids for bothering me.
- Ratna is their mother, and I adore her. She also scolds the kids for their incessant curiosity, but she is probably more curious than they are about me. She has admired my rice-cooker endlessly, and told all her friends about it. She admired one of my shalwar kameez for weeks until she asked me to get her one from Dhaka – and then, when I did, was completely over the moon. She is also very interested in Western ways: she’s now asked on multiple occasions whether I kiss boys, either English or Bangladeshi, and whether I or my friends let boys touch us; and whether I, my friends or my family drink alcohol).

Although before I would’ve thought that this constant curiosity would annoy the hell out of me, I actually find it completely endearing. Yes, it’s quite tiring because I’m always on my best behavior, and must always be ready to answer the door (i.e. I must be fully clothed and with my flat in a decent state), but really, I just enjoy the company. Yes, there’s a language barrier which slows everything down, but I do feel like I’m making some genuine friends. And if my neighbors weren’t so great, I’m not sure I could stay here.

This is not to say everything’s been hunky dory; indeed, there have been several highly embarrassing moments. I’ll give you two prime examples:
1. When Ratna and Lily discovered the photobook that a friend from home so loving made for me (oh Kinch, I miss you so much!). It contains several pictures that involve nudity and semi-nudity, and I was terrified that they would be outraged at my lack of morality and storm from the flat. Far from it, in fact: they were both highly amused, and sent their kids away so they could look and point and giggle some more.
2. On rummaging through my drawers in search of crazy English things, Momo and Laboni stumbled upon my supply of tampons, and asked, as they had of everything else in there, what these were. Sadly, my Bangla was not up to such an explanation, and my dignity was not up to even an attempt at an explanation, so I just muttered that I didn’t know how to say it in Bangla, and shut the drawer.

But I figure that, actually, the embarrassment is all mine, and it’s all part of the process anyway. So, for now, I’m happy to have my ‘privacy’ invaded at every opportunity; I’m happy to have company at every possible moment. Sure, I’ll get sick of it at some point, but for now, I’m glad to have left the English definition of ‘privacy’ behind.