Where I am

Parbatipur, my home away from home, is a small town in Dinajpur district, north-western Bangladesh. It has a population of about 350 000 people, including a significant minority of indigenous communities. A major railway junction during the colonial era, it is now more of a sleepy backwater, dotted with crumbling red-brick bungaloes, where buffaloes are more common than cars.

About me

My photo
After graduating in 2008, I decided to scratch my perpetually itchy feet and try out the life of a development worker. Currently working as a VSO volunteer for a grass roots development organisation that works with indigenous peoples in north-western Bangladesh, this blog is made up of my observations, reflections and ramblings about life in this wonderfully exasperating country. Having been in Bangladesh since October 2008, the time is rapidly approaching when I will need to decide what I'm going to do next. This blog will also document my journey from Bangladesh to whatever comes next...

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

Silver linings

I arrived home from work the other day, pretty tired, and ran into Meena, my landlady. Because I’ve been working such long hours lately, I hadn’t seen her in a few days. She insisted that I come in and sit down. In between making me tea and piling at least a dozen biscuits onto my plate, she began to tell me how much she was going to miss me when I’m gone. She kept insisting that things would be altogether much better if I stay for at least one more year, that I live in her flat and (when I pointed out that I would have no job beyond 17th May, and therefore would not be able to pay the rent), that I get married in Bangladesh. Sumaia’s mother, who was passing by at the time, popped in to gossip. She said the same thing. Then Auntie from upstairs came downstairs and joined in.

Really, it was all very touching, and began to make me feel rather tearful.
But then, as Meena was bringing me my dinner (I only put up a feeble resistance to her offer of goat curry, I’ll admit it), the mood changed. She pulled her chair closer to mine, and glanced around nervously. Jumping up again, she pushed the front door closed. I began to worry she was about to offer me her son’s hand in marriage. As she leaned in towards me, I began to panic, racking my brains for polite ways to say no.

Alas, my consternation proved to be needless. Her proposition was of quite a different nature. She asked me very softly, as if afraid the neighbours would overhear, whether I planned on taking my rice cooker back to England with me.
I gazed at her in wonder for a moment, before carefully explaining that no, it was unlikely the rice cooker would fit into my backpack. She beamed enormously. Then she asked if I’d be taking the china teapot my parents bought while they were here. And so began an inventory of all the household goods that I’ve accumulated, and which she’s obviously had her eye on for the last year and more.

I suppose the lesson here is that every cloud has a silver lining. And the cloud of me leaving Bangladesh is, for Meena at least, lined with electrical appliances and crockery.

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