Part 15: Six Stories

September 11, 2022

Choyghoria, Batiaghata,

District Khulna, Bangladesh

Bangladesh people are nothing if not brutally honest, especially when it comes to one’s appearance. No question is off limits. If there are any scars, scratches, or cuts visible to their ever-watching eye, they will most certainly make an inquiry about its origin. Sometimes, there are dark circles under my eyes. You bet, they will ask if I am depressed, have just finished crying, or what my deal is. The birthmark on my ankle has been the topic of much discussion. Not a single pimple sprouts on our faces without a comment from someone. Weight is no exception. If you have ever had the pleasure of laying your eyes upon me, you will understand why this has been a problem. For those of us who are above average weight, informing us of this fact is equal to them telling me I have brown hair, straight teeth, or a red dress. Kono bepar na, as they would say. It doesn’t matter.

Well, it does to me.

Correction: it did. Now, I have become so accustomed to it that it truly is like being told that my eyes are brown or my teeth are straight. It is almost a daily thing, and, after a year of hearing about it, I only care maybe one percent of the time.

One time, my friends were discussing how, when I first came to this country, I was a boro hati, a big elephant. Now, since I had lost a few pounds, I was only a moyesh, a water buffalo. After my return from my month-long stay in Rajshahi, someone asked me if Raj had good food, because they thought I had put on a few pounds while I was gone. One girl we know is always offering unasked-for diet advice.

Bangladeshis have conjured many ways to inform us of our extra-ness- healthy, of good health, mota (the Bangla word for thick), or for the brave ones, good, plain old English: FAT. I can listen to words like healthy, mota, and big all day long, especially if they are said in a language that is not my first. Though I love the Bangla language, it is easy to let difficult things slide right off your back as though they were never heard. HOWEVER, when things are said in my English, my native language, my heart language, THE LANGUAGE MY GRANDMOTHER LOVES ME IN, it stings a little. When people tell me I’m fat in English, that one doesn’t slide off quite as easily.

Another thought they have is that we can’t work because we are large; that it's much trouble for us to do physical tasks, such as cooking, cleaning, and making our beds. This has caused me to theatrically sweep and mop the house, making sure the doors are wide open and my virtuous work is visible to the outside world. Once, Lisa dropped a container whilst cooking and was promptly informed it was because of her fat. This has become a bit of a joke at our house. If anything falls or goes wrong, it’s “because of our fat.” Another common belief is that we are fat because we don't work.

Now, I do not like to have my character put into question in ANY language. I’m sorry, but my over-salting of the potatoes, or the fact that I burned the muffins or dropped a measuring spoon on the floor has nothing to do with the fact that I may be a bit fluffy in some light. I am able to work just as hard as anybody else, thank you very much. But, as always, it depends on the situation, as in the case of this story, which will always be one of my favorites:

As you may know, beside our house is a small factory where they make incense sticks, which the Hindus use in their daily worship rituals. It is owned by a rich man named Hanif who lives near us and struts around in blue jeans and black sunglasses. (He’s not as snooty as he seems.) His younger brother Fahim manages the factory and takes care of the work that goes on there. He does not strut around in blue jeans and black sunglasses, but instead is most often seen in the same red and plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

A few days ago, the factory received a new shipment of coal. (Coal is crushed and then pressed onto little sticks using a horrifically loud machine, thus creating the incense stick.) The veranda of the factory had become very dirty from all the bags of coal, and Fahim and his buddy Rathon were blowing it out with a leaf blower. From a distance, I observed that both boys had become entirely black from coal dust.

A while later, I was out picking up the yard when Raton walked past our gate. Now, I must insert the backstory about Rathon. We have known him since the beginning. His mom is an awesome lady whom I call “Kaki”, or aunt. I also enjoy making pumpkin cake for her. His little brother Rothin and our old guard Bishnu once went along to our outpost, Kaliganj, to help fix the fence at our CSI house. Rathon loves children and teases the kids constantly. They call him “Kaka” (uncle), and love and tease him right back.

One thing about Raton is, he loves to speak English. Often, when asked a question in Bangla, he will reply in English. His English is by no means good, but he is able to have a surface-level conversation (i.e. “Where are you going? Did you eat today?” The rain was beautiful this morning.”).

Ok, so Raton is passing by the gate. I was outside picking up the yard, so I asked him: “Hey, what were you doing over there today? I noticed you were very dirty!”

“Yes,” he replied. “We were cleaning. I was thinking maybe my home was in Africa somewhere because I had gone so black.”

“Oh,” I said. “Maybe I should do that work too—” I meant to say more, but Rathon cut me off. I meant to say: “Maybe I should do that work because then I could become darker, too.”

I never got the chance.

Before I was able to finish, he said to me in English: “Yes, because you are very fat.” And he stood there, leaning up against the gate, that never-ending smirk smeared across his face. He stood there, looking so proud of himself for just having delivered a full sentence in perfect English. Mind you, our whole conversation prior to these words had been in Bangla. The need to switch to English was non-existent, yet, for reasons unknown, he felt driven to switch for the perfect blow. What’s more, the word fat alone would have been more than enough. Why did he feel the need to add a very in there?

The best part is that Lisa had stepped outside to shake out a rug. She came just in time to hear Raton say those two magic words- “very fat”- and immediately erupted into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. (His accent had made it sound like he’d said “bhedy phat.” ) She pointed her finger at him and said in English, “Boy, you’d better not say that to me, or you’ll learn a few things today!!”

Then, she turned and went back inside. I could hear her laughter echoing off the concrete walls of the house. She went around saying, through gales of laughter: “Raton just told Kalli that she’s ‘very fat!’”

I could do nothing but laugh, too. I was so shocked, I didn’t even finish the sentence I was trying to say. Sure, we hear it all the time, but usually not in English. And usually, those whom we know so well say nothing of the sort. I just sort of agreed and went back to picking up the balls that were scattered around. I had become so flustered that I couldn’t stop laughing and ended up dropping most of them. Raton then looked at me as if to say: “See, it’s because you are very fat that you dropped that ball.”

A few days later, his mom was hanging out in front of our gate. We stood there together for something like fifteen minutes, talking about anything and everything. The topic of family came up, and we started talking about how she has two sons. “Oh, you know my sons?” she asked.

“Oh, Kaki, you have no idea...” I thought to myself.

Until the day I die or lose my mind, I hope I never forget those two words spoken from a paan-stained mouth in an accent that slightly distorted them:

“Bhedy Phat.” _________________

Another question I get often makes reference to my single-ness. Twenty-two is old for a Bengali girl to have not received a husband. Almost all marriages here are arranged in some form or another, and most girls are given in marriage between the ages of fifteen and twenty years.

DISCLAIMER: The word arranged does not mean the girl does not want to get married, and it does not necessarily mean she doesn’t want to marry the man she is marrying. While forced marriages definitely are not unheard of, nowadays, many marriages are arranged by the families after knowing that the two youngins fancy each other.

Even if nobody’s pochondo (choice) happens, most people will receive a spouse. Sometimes we hear the words: “Oh, she’ll marry good,” referring to a pretty girl. A boy who is darker than the rest may not receive as pretty a wife as one who’s skin is lighter. A girl who walks with a limp may be paired with a boy who has a speech impediment, and so on. Nobody marries above or below their social class. If someone is not married, one can only assume there must have been some major issue, such as a parent dying, a major health or mental issue, or coming from a family who is too poor to afford the dowry or a lavish wedding.

Enter me: a twenty-two-year-old unmarried girl. People always assume I’m married and often ask how many kids I have. If I am ever out with Kylie, the people will begin asking me questions about “my baby.” Upon learning I’m not married, the interrogation begins: “Hasn’t your marriage age come and gone? What’s wrong? Nobody has chosen you? (Thanks a lot. That hurts, even in Bangla.) Won’t you ever get married? You don’t want to get married?” Some lady even suggested that both of my parents must have died, leaving me with no one to give me away. I usually just hear them out and reply “Jokhon Ishor diben, tokhon biye korbo.” (When God gives, then I will marry.) They usually pretend to understand and accept this answer. Most people, Hindu or Muslim, are fairly religeous, and won’t argue or question these words.

One day, Brandi and I went to the dokan. We go there almost every day for something, and have made good friends with the old man who owns it. He is always telling us stories from back in the day or asking how things are in our country. On this day, he started out by saying

these words: “I have a question to ask you; do you mind? Will you listen?” I said “Of course,” and he proceeded.

“Bangladeshi people live very close to one another, and those who live in the village gossip a lot. I have been getting asked a question about you, because people know I know your family. I am going to ask you this question because I want to understand. Your age has become twenty-two, right? Most girls are married by then, so is it different in your country? How do you do marriages? I just want to understand so I know what to say.”

Well now, we’ve got ourselves a bit of a situation here, I thought to myself. How was I supposed to explain to this extremely Hindu man how we do our marriages? I can’t even make common Christians back home understand, and that’s all in ENGLISH. What was I to do?

I looked down at the gum Brandi and I had just bought and got an idea. “Ok,” I said. “In our country, it is different. We do not do it like you do here. Our church is different yet, so I will explain how our church does it, because I cannot speak for others.” I arranged the gum, wrapped in blue and pink wrappers, to represent a boy and a girl, and proceeded to explain the situation to him. I told him there was much prayer involved, and much discussion was had with the parents and others whether or not it was the right thing to do. “If it’s right, God will give peace to the situation and love to the boy and girl,” I explained.

“But what if these two run away without talking to anyone else first?” He quickly moved the gum representing the boy and girl away from their gum-parents. “Is it still a marriage?” I explained that, yes, it's still a marriage, but it’s not right. “I won’t do it that way,” I said.

“Oh, I know!” he said emphatically. He then asked about the age thing. “Any age? Twenty, thirty, does it matter?”

“No, no,” I said. “When God gives, that’s when people marry. Any age. Just because I’m not married doesn’t mean there is some problem. My parents aren’t dead or anything. I am just waiting on God. He knows what will happen. ”

By now, a small crowd had gathered to watch the show. “Ok, I am able to understand now,” he said with a laugh. “Now I know what to tell people.”

So, now I know that the village-people talk about me. Why wouldn’t they? Their world is so small. When something different comes along to challenge their traditions, they are not able to understand. I am thankful they are willing to open their minds to new ways of thinking. Maybe, as we are here broadening our world immensely, we are broadening theirs bit by bit. Though I know it’s not the truth, I’m half-tempted to believe that the people in this village believe I’m not married because I am fat. Who cares? I still love them to pieces. _________

On September 1st, we went to Senhati. Senhati is a place across the river, where Shati grew up. Shanto’s wanted to take us there, and we wanted to go. We had never been there before.

We got into two EZ bikes and headed out. Senhati is an island of sorts. It's not really the type of island that you find in the middle of the river, but the type of island that is simply a piece of land surrounded by rivers. The only way to get there is by boat and there are no cars on the island.

We bumped along for about thirty minutes until we got to the river. At one point, the road narrowed and it was evident that we were not going to be able to share the road with an

on-coming truck. However, our driver seemed to have acquired something between bravery and stupidity, and sent it. I was sitting on the side closest to the truck, and saw a rather uncomfortable scene unfolding. The back end of the truck scraaaaaaaaped into the EZ bike, right where I was sitting. We were jolted back and forth quite violently for a few seconds, exchanged wide-eyed glances, and drove on. Antor examined the outside of the EZ bike and announced that it had been left unscathed.

Not five minutes later, we turned onto a road that would more appropriately be called a sidewalk. Or, perhaps, two sidewalks– one about five inches higher than the other. Our “go hard or go home” driver turned down this alleyway, completely ignoring Hridoy’s advice that we should stop and walk instead. We should have walked. We got so horrifically stuck between the cracks and potholes; I think we were tipped at a perfect 45* angle when we all carefully and quickly scrambled off. We walked the rest of the way, passing huge oil tanks that Hridoy informed me someone had died in recently. Apparently they had fallen into the oil while trying to clean them.

Before too long, we reached the boat dock. Waiting to take us across were flat boats that look like nothing more than a ten-year-old boy could build using scrap wood from the back forty. I was sure we would sink, but, somehow we made it safely across the river and to the other side. A short ride later, with a stop to buy fresh chicken from the bazaar (and I mean fresh), we arrived at the house of Shati’s sister. We were greeted by a smiling Shourav- Hridoy and Antor’s “uncle” who is 21; and Polash, who is married to their cousin, or their “big sister” as they call her in their culture.

We were ushered around the village, Shati pointing out significant things from her life as we walked: her old church, the place where her father lived, her old best friend’s house. Antor showed us things, too. The same house he was born in was the very house where, in the middle of the night fourteen years later, he discovered his uncle hanging from the porch ceiling. He had died by suicide. “I couldn’t walk this way for many days after that,” he said quietly.

We went to a little graveyard where all the graves were above-ground due to the moisture. Shati showed us her grandma, grandpa, and favorite teacher. Shourav showed us his big brother’s grave, another person who had died by hanging. “This is my dada,” he said. I couldn’t keep back the tears. He shouldn’t have to lead us to the very back of the graveyard and show us a concrete cross sticking out of the ground. Pictures frozen in time shouldn’t be the only memories we have of his brother. Sometimes, life doesn’t make sense.

We went on, stopping here to check in on an old friend, and there to eat a quick biscuit. When we got to Shourav’s house, we sat down for cha, and the stories began.

Shourav told us how his mother went missing when he was three, and they finally found her in India eight years later. He told us how she couldn’t recognize him when they found her. She had gone crazy, and has no memory of those eight years. No one knows how she got to India, not even her. She now lives in a group home in Khulna, and is very well looked after, praise the Lord. I was left wondering why some people have to go through all the hard things.

Shanto told us how, as a little Muslim boy, he had always been scared of Christians. He had seen them on TV, and they were always portrayed as these meanies with big teeth and loud voices. He told us how he and his older brother had gone to Dhaka to work when he was ten, and through the kindness of one christian in Dhaka, he started going to church. This Christian happened to be Shourav’s mother.

“My mother died when I was a little boy. Shourav’s mother treated me and loved me as though I were her own son,” he explained. “She cared for me, washed my clothes, and always slipped some money into the front pocket of my shirt. I began to understand that Christians weren’t so bad after all. She always told me: ‘You’ll be OK. Someday, your life will be good.’ Slowly, slowly, I started to lose my Muslim faith.”

When Shourav’s mom turned up in India with no memory all those years later, Shanto was one of the men who went to pick her up. Though she didn’t recognize her own son, she recognized Shanto. “Ma, do you want to come home with us?” he had asked her. Her face lit up at hearing these words.

He told us of how he became a Christian, and, ten years later, how he found The Church. It really is an amazing story. Maybe someday, with his permission, I will write it down in words for others to read.

We left Shourav’s house and went to Shati’s sister’s house for lunch. We were served rice, fresh chicken curry, and vegetables. As always, the food was top-notch. After lunch, we youngins went on a hunt for some cold pop. We found some, and enjoyed drinking from the same 1 liter bottle. It is an art-form, trying to drink without touching one’s mouth to the bottle. In the meantime, Polash insisted that I try something whose name I don't remember, but it translates as “ice cream tea.” It was simply stunning, life-changing, if you will. When we returned to the house, we realized everyone had gone to a neighbor’s house to drink pop. We headed over there for a second round.

The time to go had come. Shourav packed some clothes into a backpack and tried to convince Brandi that he was moving to Dhaka to work. In reality, he was coming to stay at Shanto’s for several days. We enjoyed the boat ride back to our side of the river, and the bumpy EZ bike ride back to our beloved little village. ________________

On the evening of September 6th, Shanto’s family and Shourav came over to play volleyball. We have discovered we can make a short court in our yard, and have been playing volleyball in the literally breathtaking humidity. Tulsi (our guard) has also been playing, and has been exhibiting some amazing skills that would make the youth boys back home quake in their white sneakers. He had never even seen the game before, but has caught on quite quickly. We have also taught Shanto's boys how to play, and we can get some competitive games going, especially if we get Trevor or Lisa fired up.

We were playing ball that evening, and somehow everything worked together and I ended up running into Shourav with my face. I hit the ground in dramatic fashion, very glad to be wearing pants under my kameez. I laid there wondering if up was down and down was up when I felt two hands full me in a direction I determined to be “up”. My head was swimming and I kept seeing stars. I got back up and attempted to finish the game, plus play two more, but my head was not in it. My head had gone to a far-off universe and wasn’t going to return any time soon.

I woke up the next morning violently ill. I don’t know if it had anything to do with hitting my head or not, but either way, I was not able to finish the day of school. I will spare you the details. The family went to Khulna, and I stayed home to sleep.

I stumbled from my bed of infirmity around 4pm and made my way downstairs for a nutritious lunch of noodles and granola. An hour or so later, I saw some of my little friends playing in the sand in front of our house. Naturally, I wanted to join them. I was feeling a TON better by now, so I got ready and headed outside.

Tulsi, not knowing that I had stayed home from town, had locked the house from the outside when he had gone home for lunch. I was locked in like a prisoner! I yelled from inside for help, and I saw him laughing his head off as he came with the key. “I didn’t know you were here!” he exclaimed. I told him I had been sick, and wasn’t able to go with. He wondered if it was from hitting my head the previous night. I still don’t know what caused my mysterious illness.

And so I waited. I waited for my family to get back from Khulna, and I also waited for my dog to come home. My beloved Toby had been out all day. He usually comes home around evening if he’s been out, but evening had come and gone with no sign of him. I started to wonder if he was OK.

When our night guard came, he asked me where Toby was. “He’s been gone all day, and still hasn’t come home,” I said.

The family came home, but Toby did not. In the meantime, Brock received a gnarly bee sting on his cheek. Trevor went up to his room to investigate and ended up killing eleven bees in the room. Soon, he found the source of all the mayhem: a 12-inch beehive was perched in the tree just above the window. (I feel like this would be a good time to insert that, the previous night, Trevor had killed a spider as big as my hand in my bathroom.)

He had more important things to do than get rid of a bees’ nest at the time, like setting up our new wi-fi. He decided to leave it till tomorrow. I also had important things to do, like worry about Toby. I put out some food for him in case he came home at night and was hungry.

My love of animals may seem childish to you, and honestly, it might be. It is a bit of a problem. But what can I say, I can’t help it. Lisa always says that if I love my own children half as much as I love my dog, they will be very loved and well taken care of. She’s right. I must not let a dog go unseen without petting it. I cannot see a cat without wanting to squish its little face. I wish I could blame my eccentricity on my parents, but alas, it seems I am the black sheep of the family.

The night was quiet. I did not hear the steady barking below my window. I did not hear the howling from the arch-nemesis who lives nearby. I prayed so much I almost wondered if God was getting frustrated with me and my incessant worrying. I was sure Toby had met up with a pack of dogs somewhere and been beat up or drowned. He fights pretty well on his own, but is no match against three or four. It didn’t help that I had literally stood and watched him nearly be drowned by two other dogs just days before. I couldn’t do anything about it then, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it now.

When I awoke the next morning, I half-expected to see the curled, fuzzy tail poking out from under the van. It wasn’t there. The food had all been eaten by the cat. Toby was still out in the cold, dark unknown. *The story is being dramatized for effect.*

In the afternoon, Whitney and I went on a walk to see if we would run into him anywhere in the village. When we left, I told Tulsi, almost as a joke: “I am going to find Toby.” He loves the furry idiot almost as much as I do, and seemed concerned that he hadn’t returned yet. This didn’t help my state of mind. Guards are supposed to be strong, emotionless, and stone-faced, not soft-hearted and worried about a dog.

We asked around to some of our friends, but no one had seen him. We returned home empty-handed. I began to worry even more. What is he eating? Where did he sleep? If he had died, was he scared in his last moments? I couldn’t stop thinking about the squeals of terror I had heard a few days before, that day he almost drowned in front of me. I wondered if he had looked for me and my trusty stick to protect him, as we had so many times.

Now, I was wondering if I would be able to get a new puppy. I was wondering if I could ever get over that fuzzy, curled tail and those extra-large black ears; how he perks his head and drops everything when I call him in Bangla to come eat, and how he howls when we mention the name of his arch-nemesis. Luckily, I was not faced with that decision.

Later, when I was outside, Tulsi summoned me over to him and said he had heard where Toby was. A rickshaw van driver from our village had seen him clear out by the Batiaghata Bridge, a significant distance from our house: maybe thirty minutes by walking. He had told Fahim, and Fahim had come over and told Tulshi. Toby was at another dog’s house, a dog named Lalu. (Here, we have another example of village gossip. Like seriously, how did a man from our village think to tell our neighbor that our dog was in Batiaghata?)

“So what, is he ok?” I asked Tulshi. “Will he come home on his own, or are we going to go get him?”

“If he doesn’t come home tonight, I’ll go get him in the morning,” Tulshi promised. I told him that I had been so worried about him, and had thought horrible things up in my mind about what could have happened to him. “Me too,” he admitted.

Not ten minutes later, extra-large black ears and a curled and fuzzy tail came bounding up to our gate. “TOBY!” I exclaimed, suddenly feeling like a 10-year-old instead of a full grown adult. I examined his body for any life-threatening injuries. I didn’t discover any, but I did see that he was very dehydrated and had lost a lot of weight. (Perhaps I should try his diet plan.) I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. I could finally enjoy life again. Everything was right in the world. Except for one thing: the bees’ nest had not come down yet. Trevor had told Tulshi about it, and Tulshi had told Trevor that Fahim would come over and they would knock it down.

So, that evening, Fahim came over and they began devising a plan. To cut the branch from the tree, they got the long stick they use for knocking fruit from the trees; but determined that, due to its flimsiness, it simply would not work. They resorted to using a dow, a curved blade with a wooden handle.

We turned off all the lights, shut all the doors and windows, and went quietly crept upstairs. From the top of the roof, they shone flashlights down onto the biggest swarm of bees I’ve ever seen. Fahim lined up for the perfect blow on the branch, and instructed Tulsi to TURN THE LIGHT OFF AS SOON AS HE HIT IT.

He hit. The light went off, and they scrambled. These two grown men scrambled for cover like little boys playing hide-and-seek. From my relative safety on the other side of the roof, I laughed my head off. They were crouching behind a concrete pillar, giggling and peaking out into the darkness. “Don’t you dare turn your light on.”

Then, Fahim gets struck with something between bravery and stupidity, and begins crawling around on all fours, killing bees with his bare hands. I bet you know where this story is

going. He would kill a bee, then proudly bring it to the table and announce: “Number three, number four...”

Suddenly, he bolted up and, without a word, made a rapid descent downstairs. He had been stung on the lip. The bees had taken their revenge on their killer. He and Tulsi left and said they’d be back a little later to finish the job.

A little later, they came back with a plan. They had gasoline and wanted to know where our water gun was. They wanted to fill the water gun with gasoline to spray on the hive. I was searching around for it, when our night guard, who had arrived during the whole mess, pointed out that Fahim was wearing a mask to cover his lip. Fahim pulled his mask down revealing his sting, and I could hardly keep my laughter in. “OH WOW,” was all I could say. His lip had swollen to 3x the normal size. He insisted that it didn’t hurt, but I had no faith in his words. I didn’t want to make him feel dumb by laughing at him, so I went inside to do that.

The boys had somehow successfully cut the branch from the tree and lit the whole thing on fire. In the meantime, Sunil Kaka (our night guard) and I examined Toby with a flashlight. We discovered that he had some nasty battle wounds that needed medicine. Mother Kalli, to the rescue. I got my cotton pads and my dog medicine and went to work. Toby was very sore, and didn’t seem to take to my care very well.

After the nest was burned up and there was nothing left but ashes, Fahim took off his mask to show off his new look to all the kids. “Get Kylie, I want to see if she is scared of me.” We shone the flashlight on him and Kylie came out, clinging to Tulshi’s neck for safety. She laughed and laughed. We tried to decide what kind of animal he looked like. Trevor suggested that he looked like a fish, and I thought he looked rather like a platypus. When he left, he said he was giving thanks for his “beautiful new face.” _____________

Shanto’s had us over for a fish fry one evening. We were served fried tilapia from their pond, catfish, clams, and dal. And rice of course. That goes without saying. The others enjoyed some sort of cilantro mash; but Shati knows I am a diva who refuses anything with cilantro, so, thankfully, none appeared on my plate.

The food was AMAZING. Like AMAZING. I do not have the words to make you understand how good it was, so I guess the only option is for you to come eat it yourself. They would gladly cook it for you.

We were served two whole tilapia fish. They had been fried, skin and all, with only their gills being cut out before cooking. They didn’t appear to have eyes, but the eye sockets were still present. We ate the whole thing, skin and all. Most people opt not to eat the head, but, on my request, Shati’s sister plopped that sucker in her mouth and ate ‘er up. She said she geniunly enjoys them!

Next was the catfish. They made a curry, so it was a little more normal. Back home, I wouldn’t touch fish with a ten-foot pole. Although I had acquired a taste for salmon, I would not be found eating pond fish. However, the mission changes people, and catfish is one of my favorite foods to eat in this country.

I cannot say the same for the clam. I will never say the same for the clam. It was so rubbery and un-chewable that I’m a little surprised I’m not still seated on their floor trying to work

it down. I didn’t feel bad for not liking it, because most of Shanto’s family are so grossed out at the smell of it that they haven’t even tried it. Thus, my old trick of sneaking food I don’t want to eat on Hridoy’s plate was ineffective.

It’s not like it was so horrible. However, if you want to get the same effect, go out to your garage and take an old pair of shoes, cut the bottom off, then cut the bottom into bite-sized pieces, season them, make a curry sauce, and serve it up with a little rice and dal. Bon appetit! ______________

This last weekend, Khulna hosted a men’s meeting. The four mission families, plus all the brethren got together to discuss some things. We had a houseful! Elwood’s from Rajshahi and Daniel’s from Dhaka stayed here for two nights, and Kelly’s from Gopalganj came and went on the same day. You can do that when you only live an hour away. They did run into some misfortune, however, when their tire acquired a leak on our road. Their van sat perched on a jack for the time being.

After the meeting at church, everyone came to our house for lunch. Shima, Kelly’s maid in Gopalganj, had spent the previous day cooking Bangla food for everyone. She made chicken, dal, and misti kumra (sweet pumpkin). We made a huge pot of rice and warmed the rest of the food in our oven before serving it to the members. Amber quipped how, since it was her turn to serve the rice, she was going to pile it on their plates just like they pile ours. Our sister Shati ate fourteen (14) hot peppers with her meal! I kept giving them to her to be funny, but they kept disappearing. She had told me she would have to stop after eleven, because her stomach would start hurting. Somehow, though, she must have managed to squeeze three more in there.

Miss Trish, Whitney, Antor, Hridoy, and I sat in the shack outside our gate, discussing life’s matters and solving all the world’s problems. The boys’ dad, Shanto, is of the talkative nature (putting it mildly), so we walked to the river while waiting for him to get ready to leave. When we returned, he was still not ready to go. Hridoy and I set up the volleyball net and we hit the ball around until it started to rain.

Once the rain lessened, we went outside the gate to wait. I was calmly standing there when I noticed a man sleeping on the bench under the shack beside our gate! I informed Hridoy, and he went to access the man. He looked slightly poggle (crazy), Tulshi had just returned home from Khulna, where he had taken Kelly’s tire to get patched. “Have you met our new guard?” I asked him. He looked slightly confused as to why someone would have shown up to take his job. I told him to go look on the bench, and he literally jumped when he saw its occupant. He laughed and said that this new guard was fantastic and, in fact, better than him.

Tulshi got his phone out and shone the flashlight on the poggle. “Hey brother, what’s your situation?” Somehow, he convinced the man to come with him. He walked with him a little ways down the road, and came back alone. I asked him what he had told the man and he said, “There is a better place to sleep up ahead!”

Today is September 11th, and everyone has returned home to their posts. Our guard has just gone home for lunch, the last echo of the noon prayer call has just been lost within the trees. Rain is falling in huge, beautiful drops. The raindrops landing on the palm fronds create such a nice soothing rhythm, it almost makes me want to get sentimental. I suppose this would

be an appropriate time for sentiment, as today marks one year since I boarded the plane in Denver and flew away to my new life; a life that has been filled with excitement, adventure, hard times, lonely times. The good has far outweighed the bad, and I wouldn’t change anything.

I really must go, for I fear that I may make this letter even longer yet. September 13th will mark one year since I’ve been here, and I was planning to create some kind of sappy tribute letter to my year in Bangladesh. However, I am afraid that if I wait one more day to send this, some other dramatic thing will happen and I will have to write about it, So, I will leave that for the next letter. I ran out of room in this one eight pages ago. I think I’ve given you enough to think about for now! If you read the whole thing, I would like to personally shake your hand and say “Well done.”

Feel free to message or email me anytime! I think about home every day, and I miss everyone.

Come see me,

-Kalli