There is so much to write, the montage of memories from the imperfect and impoverished land. It is late in the day to gather my thoughts, will do so, eventually, but it was a quite a journey, those blazing vehicles, a nation in commotion, like all the left-behinds, a prisoner of its past, refusing to look forward and living in history. The politicos, still trying to execute the culprits war crime of 1971, asking for capital punishment, for someone who is in late seventies, eventually ruining the youth, which is busy protesting and immolating.
The tea on the street and Fuchka on the roadside, reminds how close is India. People galore, parading around Basundhara City Mall, only hang out in Dhaka. High end street at Gulshan and okay street for youth at Bailey road. That live band at thirty 3 and their version of Kolavari Di, the melody and ambiance lingers on.
Those rides to factories - 30 km in 2 hours, bleeding infrastructure and poverty everywhere. and after my return, those collapsing buildings and those burning souls, which made news item for several weeks.
A week later in Manhattan, I wondered, how does life change so much from one end to the other..only 16 hours apart by distance and several centuries apart by outlook.
The tea on the street and Fuchka on the roadside, reminds how close is India. People galore, parading around Basundhara City Mall, only hang out in Dhaka. High end street at Gulshan and okay street for youth at Bailey road. That live band at thirty 3 and their version of Kolavari Di, the melody and ambiance lingers on.
Those rides to factories - 30 km in 2 hours, bleeding infrastructure and poverty everywhere. and after my return, those collapsing buildings and those burning souls, which made news item for several weeks.
A week later in Manhattan, I wondered, how does life change so much from one end to the other..only 16 hours apart by distance and several centuries apart by outlook.
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