Dhaka, one last time (October 27-31, 2008)

Mizan takes me to his parents' house in Khulna to spend the night. The next day we take a bus to Jhalakathi to pick up Shobnam and catch the launch back to Dhaka. It is nice to see Shobnam again, and she seems happy that she was able to spend so much time with her family. We catch the launch that night and arrive early morning.

I spend the next week resting at Mizan and Shobnam's apartment. Mizan is at work all day and Shobnam tends to cooking and cleaning for about half the day, so I entertain myself.

I am sick once again. I finish reading my book, The Three Mistakes of My Life by Chetan Bhagat, which was at the time a best-selling novel in India. It is about three young Gujarati men--one who is passionate about cricket, one who is passionate about religion, and one who is passionate about business--who open a cricket supply store together. The cricket aficionado starts coaching a young Muslim boy who shows much potential. When there is a train bombing and Hindus die, a conflict develops between the religious boy, who shows loyalty to his uncle's Hindu nationalist political organization, and the other boys. The business-oriented boy's devotion to business rather than people only increases the schism. What ensues is a showdown between the uncle and the boys as he tries to kill the young Muslim cricket prodigy...

I also indulge in lots of television viewing. I catch up on the election by watching the BBC or CNN. I also watch English movies and TV shows. Sometimes I switch to Hindi or Bangla music videos or programs. At these times, Shobnam takes a break from cooking and cleaning and sits by me, translating and explaining. I gather that Bangladeshis are extremely romantic people, for their singers' songs are always gushing with expressions of love. There is a show in which Tagore's rabindrasangit (Tagore song) are performed. I watch the Bangladesh national television channel and see commercials urging people to vote the Sundarbans and Cox's Bazaar as the new seven wonders of the world.

Shobnam cooks me wonderful food. In addition to the bhat (rice) and subji (vegetables), she often makes me a sweet--either Shemai or Payish. Shemai uses vermicelli, while Payish uses rice. Both involve boiled milk and sugar, sometimes infused with cardamom. Payish might have a few added raisins or cashews. It's my favorite, but both are great. It seems I have lost weight over the course of my month in Bangladesh, and Mizan and Shobnam have made it their goal to fatten me up again before I go. So Shobnam is always trying to get me to eat more.

At night when Mizan comes home, we have dinner and I watch Mizan and Shobnam feed each other with their hands, all the while arguing about how much Shobnam eats. They indulge in meat and fish, and don't understand why I only eat subji. After, we watch more television or talk about Bangladesh and America. Mizan is struggling to decide if he should work abroad again and support his parents, or stay in Bangladesh with Shobnam. Clearly, it's a hard decision between two different duties he has. It seems people criticized him the first time he came back to be with his wife. This is something most Americans don't have to think about because their family structure is different, as is their financial status.

On Mizan's day off, we venture across town to Gulshan and see his new office. He is working to establish a call center. His boss insists we celebrate the new office and takes us out to Pizza Hut. I am hesitant, but actually it turns out to be great. The ingredients and taste are just like in the US. The only difference is that in Bangladesh, Pizza Hut is marketed as a high-class restaurant rather than a dirty fast-food joint as in the states.

I finally feel better just as my visa is about to expire. It is time for me to go back to India. Mizan buys me a bus ticket across the border. Shobnam says, "If there is anything we did wrong, anything to upset you, please forgive us." This is Bangladeshi hospitality. I tell her, "no, everything was perfect. I did not get sick because of you. I am a farm chicken." She begs, "Please remember us." It's something I've heard Bangladeshis ask over and over again. I tell her, "of course. How could I forget?"