I woke up, stretched and wiped the sleep from my eyes. A new day in Dhaka. After coming back from Bali, everything seemed strange and dirty again. I saw the rubbish piled in the street and the immense number of beggars with twisted limbs once again that I had just a week before been numb and blind to. The smells, the sounds, even as I woke in my luxurious apartment reminded me of Bangladesh and told me that I was certainly not on vacation anymore.
I dressed and walked across the hall to my Vice Principal, Debra’s, house to welcome her back and to catch up on gossip. After a satisfying chat, we both decided to go to school, do some work and check our email. We walked down the five flights of stairs and proceeded to exit the gate. The guard stopped me. “Sister! Sister!” he said and continued to talk to me in Bangla over 110 mph. Debra looked at me questioningly and I looked at the guard. “Mustafar,” I said, trying to slow him down. “Ami buste pari na. Ashti ashti bolen.” (I don’t understand, speak slowly) He tried speaking slowly for the first few words, but immediately sped back up to the original 110 mph this time banging on the gate.
The words “sister” and “Emily” are the only ones I could catch. Completely baffled, I scratched my head. “Sister Emily (who was my roommate) went to America last night.” I told him in Bangla. “I don’t understand.” Debra looked ready to go and so was I, but Mustafar was completely bent on communicating his message to me. I dialed Diane Jennings. “Can you please listen to what Mustafar is trying to tell me? It seems important and I can’t understand him.”
Just then the landlord (feared by all this tenants) walked up to the situation. “Sandi,” he said in his thick Bengali accent looking down at me from on high grinning his greasy smile, “What is going on?”
“Ummm.” I said trying to hide my timid look. “I’m not sure, I don’t understand what Mustafar is saying. Something about Emily, but she left for America last night.”
“Who is on the phone?” he said, pushing the words through his tiny row of teeth.
“Well, sir, that’s none of your business, and I’m in a hurry.” I said summoning my Western equality with him and squaring up my shoulders. I wouldn’t have him questioning me. I don’t work for him. His lips slowly shut over his teeth and Mustafar scampered over to me and held up the phone. “Hello, Diane? What is Mustafar talking about?”
“I have no idea! Something about Emily!” she said confused. I couldn’t deal with the situation anymore. I left it and walked out the door and stepped onto the rickshaw where Debra was already waiting for me.
“What was that about?” Asked Debra scooting over in the tiny seat.
“I have no idea, but I feel like drama is on the wind.”
I dressed and walked across the hall to my Vice Principal, Debra’s, house to welcome her back and to catch up on gossip. After a satisfying chat, we both decided to go to school, do some work and check our email. We walked down the five flights of stairs and proceeded to exit the gate. The guard stopped me. “Sister! Sister!” he said and continued to talk to me in Bangla over 110 mph. Debra looked at me questioningly and I looked at the guard. “Mustafar,” I said, trying to slow him down. “Ami buste pari na. Ashti ashti bolen.” (I don’t understand, speak slowly) He tried speaking slowly for the first few words, but immediately sped back up to the original 110 mph this time banging on the gate.
The words “sister” and “Emily” are the only ones I could catch. Completely baffled, I scratched my head. “Sister Emily (who was my roommate) went to America last night.” I told him in Bangla. “I don’t understand.” Debra looked ready to go and so was I, but Mustafar was completely bent on communicating his message to me. I dialed Diane Jennings. “Can you please listen to what Mustafar is trying to tell me? It seems important and I can’t understand him.”
Just then the landlord (feared by all this tenants) walked up to the situation. “Sandi,” he said in his thick Bengali accent looking down at me from on high grinning his greasy smile, “What is going on?”
“Ummm.” I said trying to hide my timid look. “I’m not sure, I don’t understand what Mustafar is saying. Something about Emily, but she left for America last night.”
“Who is on the phone?” he said, pushing the words through his tiny row of teeth.
“Well, sir, that’s none of your business, and I’m in a hurry.” I said summoning my Western equality with him and squaring up my shoulders. I wouldn’t have him questioning me. I don’t work for him. His lips slowly shut over his teeth and Mustafar scampered over to me and held up the phone. “Hello, Diane? What is Mustafar talking about?”
“I have no idea! Something about Emily!” she said confused. I couldn’t deal with the situation anymore. I left it and walked out the door and stepped onto the rickshaw where Debra was already waiting for me.
“What was that about?” Asked Debra scooting over in the tiny seat.
“I have no idea, but I feel like drama is on the wind.”
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