Part 12: Summertime Stories

July 10, 2022 Thikana 71, Boropukria

Rajshahi, Bangladesh

Our little school had our year-end program on June 16th: Thomas, Marcy, Brock, Brandi, Whitney, Miss Trish, and I. Elwood and Melissa even came down from Rajshahi to enjoy the day with us. Our program was about “The Wonderful World.” Each student chose a country, and we wrote reports on those countries and painted the countries’ flags on cardboard. We had Italy, the United Kingdom, Fiji, and Bahrain. Brock is only in first grade, so I had him memorize a poem instead of making him fulfill the tedious job of writing a report. They recited their reports and poems, and sang beautifully in the songs. I was very proud of them.

After our program, we had somewhat of a “play day.” Jara and Dean had brought water balloons from America (woo-hoo!), so we had a balloon-toss. Of course, everyone knows balloon-tosses usually turn into full-scale waterfights. This one was no exception. After we were thoroughly soaked, Trevor, Whit, and I strung a cord across the yard to create somewhat of a volleyball court. We did not care about how much noise we produced. I think the neighbors were somewhat intrigued by what was happening at our house that day.

The next morning, June 17th, at 6:10 am, Miss Trish and I, along with Elwood and Melissa, boarded the train to Rajshahi. For six hours we journeyed north, through endless green and over rivers and through bustling little towns full of busy people. For six hours we sat, drinking cha and eating chips and breakfast burritos and banana muffins that Lisa had sent from home.

We arrived at Rajshahi a little after noon. We went to Michael and Monica’s that evening. Monica is a member, and Michael is expelled. They have three children. Their son, Franklin, is an eye doctor and married to a girl named “Happy”, who lives up to her name. Franklin and Happy have one adorable daughter, Christiana, 5. Michael’s also have two daughters, Anamika, (11,12?) and Marcy, 21. Marcy is a member as well.

Rajshahi is basically the “Eden” of Bangladesh. I wish you could see it. I think it will be a bit difficult for my Kansas people to imagine. There are orchards full of mango trees, lichi trees, papaya trees, and gardens full of peppers, cabbage, cauliflower, pumpkin corn... anything you can imagine. These farmers export their fruits and vegetables all over Bangladesh. Everyone says Rajshahi soil is the best, so Rajshahi fruit is better than any other fruit in the country.

Rajshahi is also famous for its silk. One day, we went to visit the silk factory in town. We got to watch the different steps of silk, from the worm to the fabric. We saw it all. It was fascinating. I’d love to take you there someday. We went to the building where they boil the cocoons of silk to kill the worm and softon the fibers. We saw where they spin the silk two, three, ten times to make the thinnest thread. We saw the weavers where the shuttle moves back and forth at top speed to turn that thread into luxurious silk fabric. Lastly, we went to the building where they were hand painting and screenprinting saris, ornas, hijabs, and fabric. They said we could come back someday and do some ourselves.

We went to the Padma River. We took a ride on Tutul’s colorful boat and looked across the river to where India lies. Tutul dropped us off on a sandbar in the middle of the river and we ate the lunch we had packed: sandwiches, mango pickles, chips, and cookies. We swam in the river and got tangled in crab nets and got very, very sunburnt.

Then one day, we set out on an adventure. We drove for six more hours, six more hours further north. (At this point, I was twelve hours away from my Khulna home. When I lived in Montana, I was eighteen hours away from my Kansas home. However, when you stop to consider that Bangladesh is only the size of Iowa, it gives you a bit of an idea of what driving is like.) Our road took us right beside the Indian border. A black barbed-wire fence running through the field is all that separates the two countries. It looked pretty much the same, but on that side, the currency is the rupee instead of taka, you can’t park along the street, ruti is called roti, and puris come without dal.

That afternoon, we arrived at our destination: LAMB Hospital. LAMB was started by forign christians, and still has lots of forign doctors working within its walls. Most of these doctors, nurses, and others live inside the compound. Behind the hospital is housing for many, a church, and two schools: one for handicapped children, and one for the others.

We stayed in the guest house. When we arrived, we had taken the last two rooms. The rooms were nice; the bathroom had a toilet, the shower came out from the wall instead of a bucket, and there was AC! We shared the guest house with some very interesting people: Caty: a scientist and hematologist from England. Her family fled from Germany during the Holocaust, but don’t tell the Bangladesh government that. They could deport her if they find out she’s Jewish. She has a break from work every year, and she spends it working abroad. She has been to BD several times, the Maldives, and Pakistan. She is planning a 6-week trip to Pakistan after her stint here. Dr. James and Dr. Andrene: A married pair of doctors. Imagine the power, imagine the money. Dr. James was a doctor in the British Marines, which further adds to his intimidation. He was actually very nice, and I found myself sitting next to him at many meals. His wife, Dr. Andrene, is an OB doctor from Ireland. She was a sweetheart. They spent 10 months here prior to COVID, and have been itching to come back ever since. They are working on getting visas so they can stay here long term. Eva and Taiwo: Best friends with thick London accents. They are only a year older than me, and have already graduated medical school. They haven’t had a chance to work as doctors yet, because they literally just found out they had made it. Like literally just the other day. While they were in Bangladesh. They were still trying out that “Doctor” title and were filled with fresh enthusiasm and fascination. Eva’s family came to the UK from Sierra Leone, and Taiwo’s came from Nigeria. Nova: A medical student from Germany. Probably the coolest person I’ve ever met. She can speak five languages and wants to be a surgeon. Excuse me, I’ll retire from being Kalli and become Nova instead. And of course, the wonderful staff who cooked for us and cleaned our rooms and did our laundry. I got kind of attached to them.

One day while we were at LAMB, Melissa and I decided we wanted to give blood. I used to give blood every time the Red Cross came to Ulysses, but after I went to Africa I wasn’t able to give for a year. Then, I moved to Montana and the opportunity never presented itself. When I saw the sign posted on the bulletin board in the guest house, I knew I wanted to do it. Maybe they would pay extra for American blood. (That was a joke. I know better.)

We walked into the hospital and told them what we were there for. “Amra rokto dite esechi.” The previous day, on our extensive tour of the place, we had observed a man giving blood in a room that could hardly be described as “clean.” We were ushered into this same room. I don’t know if you have given blood in America or not, but, for those of you who haven’t, I am going to tell you what it’s like over on your side of the pond. First, you answer a three page questionnaire, covering a variety of detailed personal questions, travel-related questions, disease-related questions, ect. They take your blood pressure to make sure it's safe for you to give blood. They take your temperature to make sure you’re healthy. They check your iron to make sure you’re not a robot. Basically, you get a mini physical prior to giving blood. And everything is very safe and sanitary.

In Bangladesh, there are four steps. 1) Show up. 2) Answer a questionnaire telling your name, age, weight, blood type, and address. 3) Get a teeeeeensy vial of blood drawn from your arm. If this blood is deemed worthy, you may proceed to step four. 4) Place your large American self on their small, grungy Bangladeshi bed while they suck the life from your veins.

It’s not that bad. I’m being dramatic for the sake of a story. I was never nervous, nor did I feel unsafe the entire time. They used clean needles. They rubbed our arms with iodine before sticking us. They even gave me pop afterwards. The little man who took my blood commented on how it was khub bhalo rokto, very good blood, because it was going so fast. The only thing that was slightly concerning? There was not a single glove in the room, nor did I see anyone wash their hands.

On another day, we drove twenty minutes west of LAMB to a town called Dinajpur. There lives an expelled sister and her family. She and her oldest daughter have been out of the church for 10+ years. She is a very jolly and motherly woman named Annamika, and her oldest son Piyash lives with her, along with Piyash’s wife and two children: a son named Shapnodip, and a daughter named Aditi. If you paid attention to my last letter, you will remember that my Bengali name is also Aditi. I was very excited to find out that I shared a name with this little 1.5 yr. old cutie. (Shapnodip means dream light, and Aditi, I found out, means best, final, and most beautiful. Imagine that.)

Annamika served us cha. It was beautiful and lovely and lovely and beautiful. When my cha was about half gone, I was innocently lifting the cha glass to my mouth when the handle broke off! Suddenly, I was wearing half my cha! I had worn one of my salwar kameez, and now my pants were completely soiled. Annamika gave me a pair of hers to wear while we washed mine and hung it on the roof to dry.

She served a delicious lunch of rice, fish, vegetables, and a new item to me: fish eggs straight from the fish she had butchered to cook for us. They were so tasty. Her daughter next door made us a decadent chocolate cake, decorated with purple frosting and pearl sprinkles. I bet it was not the kind of cake you’re thinking of.

I played with Shapnodip all day. He is 4 years old, and very, very cute. I fell in love with him right away. His little mischievous grin and his tiny words made their way straight into my heart and I wanted to take him home with me. He cried when we left. Our four days at LAMB were good. It rained and I slipped in a mud puddle in front of a bunch of men. I got to pet some beautiful pups. I even tricked the cat into letting me pet it. I ate toast with orange marmalade every morning and sipped coffee with cream and sugar, the way the Bengalis taught me to.

One day, after returning from LAMB, we found a museum to visit. We didn’t really know what to expect, as no one had ever been to a museum in Bangladesh before. Turns out, it was a whole load of things that had been dug up from back in the day; ancient Hindu idols filled many rooms, all intricately carved out of stone. Some were so old the faces had worn off. Some looked as though they had been carved yesterday.

There were old Muslim artifacts as well; stone tablets in Arabic recording the building of a mosque, a bridge, or the selling of land. There were hand-written Qurans, beautifully lettered in swooping Arabic. In a case was an faded and ragged thobe, presumably worn by some great man of Islam. A frock was displayed next to it, boasting that it had been worn by someone’s wife.

In another case were old swords, looking shockingly more Asian than Middle-eastern. (Most of the time, I feel like I live in a Middle-eastern country rather than an Asian one. Islam has influenced so much of the culture here.) A gleaming katana was displayed in the middle of the case, its sheath magnificently decorated with detailed carvings. Other weapons left over from old wars decorated the space, and I was reminded that this far-away land has a history far longer and more complex than that of my own country.

In the 1700s, when Bangladesh, India, and Pakistan were still one country, kings and queens walked through the gardens and ate fruit from the trees in the area known today as “Rajshahi District.” One day, we discovered that we could go visit a palace an hour away. The next day, we packed into the vehicle and drove to Natore.

The place is called Rajbari, king’s home. We paid a small entrance fee (foreigners pay more), and walked the bridge spanning the old mote. There were six buildings on the grounds. People milled here and there, and, through conversation, we learned that people live there. We befriended a police officer and the keeper of the keys, who granted us access to some of the more-well-preserved buildings: the courthouse, and the son’s palace.

We walked across the marble floors of the courthouse. The high ceilings and arched windows held many stories, and I found myself wishing I could ask them questions. “Who walked these halls 300 years ago? What things have you seen? What stories have you heard?”

Our police officer took us up to the roof. He showed us where the king and his subjects could sit and drink cha while discussing the latest in kingdom drama. He showed us where the guards hung out, spying on the activities below. When our police officer spotted a couple snuggling on the bench below, he marched over there and took an authoritative stance in front of them. I guess that’s not allowed here? I didn’t see what became of the situation because I was being beckoned inside a warm shack for some ice cream.

The guard showed us the ruins of the queen’s personal mondir, or temple, long destroyed by an earthquake two hundred years ago. He told us that the king and queen had separate palaces, and I now have a new life goal: to marry a king, and demand a separate palace all to myself. Not too unrealistic, right?

The king and queen’s three sons also had their own palaces. The eldest son’s palace was the only one that had been preserved. It stood on the corner of the grounds, framed by tall palm trees. We entered the palace, and I closed my eyes and went back, back, back in time and imagined the grand parties that could have happened where I was standing. I imagined the marble floors being filled with dancing and laughter that went late into the night and early into the morning. I heard the songs of the instruments I had seen in the museum, saw the flowing sarees and the feathered turbines that once colored this space. An eerie silence hung in the air, the loneliness of a place that longs to hear the sound of laughter again. Or, maybe, the silence of a place that knew too much corruption. Maybe both.

As we were leaving the grounds, we learned of another palace not too far away. We discussed it over biryani, and decided that we would go. I am so glad we did. The second place was so much better preserved. The gardens were lovely, filled with every flower you can imagine. Big, flowering bushes lined the mote, and tall, ancient palm trees stretched up and up and touched the sky. I walked through the gardens touching all the flowers, half expecting to see a king and queen make their way out of the grand building in front of me.

Words actually fail me. In the past, when I have thought of The Garden of Eden, my imagination took me to a place that was not that different from what I was now walking through. Now, when I think of Eden, I can only picture these palace grounds. Perhaps I have been in Bangladesh long enough to have forgotten the beauty of America. Or, perhaps, it really was as beautiful as I am telling you.

One day this last week, we went into town. We went, in part, to return to the silk factory and paint our own sarees. When we got to the silk factory, they said they had off for Eid Murabak, the upcoming Muslim holiday. We missed them by one day. As we were driving away, I found myself reminiscing about caramel lattes. “Oh, I just need a caramel latte,” I said aloud, hardly realizing I had said it. “Ok,” Melissa said, “find a coffee shop and let’s go get you one!”

I settled on the one called “Chalk and Beans.” I navigated us through narrow streets undergoing construction and across busy intersections. When we arrived, a smooth english-speaking young man met us and opened the door.

American Country songs played loudly from the speakers. The menu was in English, proper English, and displayed familiar items. When we were through, I was a little startled to walk out the doors and discover I was still in Bangladesh. It felt so much like an eccentric coffee shop in a college town back home. And their caramel latte was to die for.

Later, when Trisha and I were dropped off at the wrong location by our confused rickshaw driver, we got to experience the evening crowds in the heart of the city. I will never forget standing on the footbridge above the street and looking down onto the sidewalk below. The sea of people stretched as far as the eye could see. The oscillating crowd moved at a never-ending pace through the sultry evening air. There was not a spare inch of room. The people waded through one another, shoulder to shoulder, not bothering to say “excuse me.”

Eventually, we were reunited with the others of our party and spent the rest of the evening eating Indian food on the third story of a building.

Today, July 10th, is Eid Mubarak. During this time, the Muslims remember the time Abraham was asked to take his son to the mountain and give him as a sacrifice. As we know, God provided a ram for sacrifice instead. The Muslims come together and celebrate by sacrificing a bull, billygoat, lamb, or buffalo. The rich in Dhaka even have camels brought in from Saudi Arabia. Mohammad ate camel meat, so naturally, they think that is what pleases Allah the most.

As we drive down the streets, we see big, beautiful bulls tied to stakes outside of houses. My animal-loving heart can’t take it. I want to cut their ropes and tell them to run for their lives. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to hear it. They say the streets in Dhaka run red with the blood of the animals. They say it smells of blood for days. And I want to bury my head in my pillow so I don’t have to think about it all day.

The sacrifice is called korbani and is shared three ways: with their family, with their friends and neighbors, and with the poor. We have been invited to a korbani feast for lunch tomorrow. They will be sacrificing a goat.

I’ll end with a positive story. One day after singing at Michael’s, we stopped by the house of the man I refer to as “the shepherd.” He is a gentle man who spends his time tending to his sheep and goats and orchards, and he had invited us over to eat mangos. We sat in his warm foyer, learning about his family and discussing the mango crop this year. It soon became evident that we were not here to just eat a few mangos.

Mangos, and mangos, and mangos. We were given a bowl full of the first kind, asked about the taste, and, when we were finished, we were given a bowl full of the second kind. This repeated itself three more times. They were so, so good. Each of the five different kinds of mangos had a completely different taste. Each one was better than the last.

We began to say our “thank yous”, but the shepherd made sure we knew we weren’t going anywhere. His son brought us some Bengali snack food I won’t even begin to try to spell or describe, but trust me when I say it is very good. We were served six of the golf-ball sized treats, barely finding room in our stomachs. Then, the shepherd informed us that the noodles were almost finished in the kitchen.

Noodles. “How will there be room?” my stomach asked my brain. “You love noodles!” my heart reminded my my brain. And there was room. There is always room for noodles. Once I was full up to my eyeballs, we stood up to go. But nay, this was not the time either, for the daughter-in-law had just run to fetch the cousins who would like to see us! “They only live two houses down, just five more minutes!”

I ended up chatting with one of the cousins who looked no older than 13. When I discovered that she was in nursing school, I decided she must be a little closer to my age, after all. I asked her where she lived and she told me to come visit her someday. We went home with full bellies and good memories.

Sometimes, when I am missing home, I stand on the roof and look at the stars. They are the same stars that used to comfort me back then, too. Orion still raises his sword against Leo

the Lion in the west, and the Big Dipper still points out the North Star. Cassiopeia still spreads in a haphazard W across the night sky, and Jupiter and Mars still glow with fiery red. All these thousands of miles away, where everything is different, where they still worship idols and make blood sacrifices, the night sky is something that has not changed.

Thanks again for the messages and emails! I read them all, and sometimes I even read them twice or three times.

Come see me,

Kalli