Part 16: When the Music Plays

October 17, 2022

Choyghoria, Batiaghata,

District Khulna, Bangladesh

I don’t feel like cleaning, so I’ve sat down to write a letter instead. To be honest, I don’t want to write a letter either, but it seemed like the lesser of the two evils. It doesn’t seem like much has happened since the last time I wrote, but when I think about putting the last month and a half into words, it seems a bit of an overwhelming task. We went to three birthday parties, I got an ant bite, Lisa’s folks arrive in a few days, my dog’s foot got infected, and the Hindus had their biggest festival of the year. Let’s unpack:

October 1-5: Durga Puja. Once a year, the big, all-important Hindu festival Durga Puja comes around. Durga is one of the major Hindu goddesses, the goddess of strength, protection, motherhood, wars, and destruction. Just down the road- like literally maybe only a hundred yards- is a Hindu temple where Durga is the center of focus. We would be able to see it if it weren’t for the thick trees and the curve in the path. We walk past it every day, and it has become just as common a thing as coconuts in the trees or the rice in the field.

Every year leading up to Durga Puja, they throw their old gods in the river and make new ones. For three weeks, artists were bent beneath the shade of the temple making new idols. First, they construct a bamboo T, tying straw around the T to make the shape they desire.

Once the form is completed, they smear clay over the straw to make a smooth surface from which they can carve faces, hands, and feet. After the carving and shaping is complete and the mud has dried in the hot Bengal sun, they paint their gods to look just like they are supposed to. Next they give them hair and dress them. They place spears in their hands and crowns upon their heads. Lastly, they carefully set them in specific places in the temple.

Everyone comes from around the village to look at the new gods that have just been finished. Next year, they will throw these in the river and make new ones. The circle continues.

In addition to building new idols, they hung lights everywhere. The side of the school that sits next to the temple glowed with red and green string lights. They set up a massive and colorful tent with tables and chairs to fit an entire wedding reception. The stage was out in front, framed by two massive speakers. They built bamboo archways over the pathway and strung them with white, red, yellow, blue, and green string lights. When darkness set in and the lights came on, it was truly amazing. It felt like something out of a dream and looked like a page from the National Geographic.

Puja ran for five days. They worshiped in the morning and had their gatherings in the evening. A few evenings, we walked through to look and to eat the street food that had come out to our little village way out in the sticks. I tried not to take it all for granted as I snaked my way under the lights through the sea of people. I looked for familiar faces. There! I joined my friend and we ate fuchka together.

The big speakers that framed the stage blared all night long, making my sleep as elusive as a forgotten memory. I was rather perturbed upon learning at the breakfast table that I was the only one who had heard the WoOwOooooOwWooWo of the music until 2:30 am. It made sense when I realized that my bedroom windows are the only ones that face the school, and that one of my windows had been open a crack. (Oops.) The following night brought a rainstorm and a reprieve from the music.

That day after school, I took a nap. It was a phenomenal nap. It was dusk when I awoke, and the music from Hindu Puja was being accompanied by the mournful wail of the Muslim call to prayer. It sounded like the two were competing to see who could make more ruckus. I, in my sleepy stupor, had to blink the sleep away before catching my bearings. Where was I? Was this real life? What is that awful sound? Is it morning or evening?

We went to Chakrakhali, a neighboring village, on the final day of the festival. We met our sister Shati and her sons, Antor and Spondon. Her husband had stayed at home to guard the jewels, and their eldest, Hridoy, was in Dhaka working. (Of course, there are no actual jewels, but they live in an area where they are not comfortable leaving their house sitting empty.)

The lighting situation in Chakrakhali was an echo of the one near our house. On one side of the light-arched walkway is a large pond, and on the other side were endless food carts and people selling random things. All of this was sitting on the top of a thick layer of mud. One must always be mindful where one stepped, lest one would go sliding and find oneself a part of the mud. It didn’t dull people’s spirits, though. Even through the hundreds and maybe thousands of people, I still found faces I knew.

I opened my mouth to say hi to one lady I know. Before I could make a sound, she popped a mishti ball into my open mouth. Then, she proceeded to ask me questions! Like, lady, you’ve just put a massive sweet dough ball into my talker, and I am not able to answer! Please leave a message and try again.

We left that evening and my social cup was overflowing. I realized how much I miss big gatherings. How I long to go to a big wedding again. How I long to sit across from strangers who quickly become new friends. That will be good again. But, for now, I’ll take sloshing through the mud in a land where nobody is a stranger. I’ll take being pulled into someone’s house for an impromptu meal or a simple cup of tea. I’ll gladly take it all.

Do not read this next story if you are tired of hearing about my dog. I’m sorry, but dogs are a big part of my life. The following is a list of all the dogs I enjoy petting on my daily walks: Toby, Jontu, Roki, Boudo, Kalu, Kalo, Bruno, Mishti, Tom, Tami, Douggie, Lalu, and a few others whose names I haven’t learned.

Anyway, my dog’s foot: Somehow- I’m not sure if it was during a fight, or if he stepped on something- his paw got cut. It turned red and swelled up and wouldn’t get any better. Trevor finally asked Tulshi if there was a vet anywhere around who could look at it. There was, but the vet was part of the Puja Committee, so we would have to wait until Puja was done before he would come take a look.

Once Puja was over, the vet came. He is a middle-aged man who rides a motorcycle and wears black sunglasses. He looked at Toby’s paw and gruffly spat out the names of the medicine we needed. Then he hurried on his way. We were supposed to give Toby one injection, two kinds of pills twice a day for three days, and antibacterial spray.

I called dibs on not giving the injection. Trevor said he would be glad to. The next night, after Trevor had gone to the vet’s office and purchased all the medicine, I held Toby tightly and tried to convince him it would all be ok. Trevor gave him the shot in his neck and Toby didn’t even flinch. They grow up so fast!

I snuck pills into little bites of chicken for the next three days. Sometimes he caught on and spit them out, but I still made him eat everything. Every day, I cleaned his wound and applied the hateful purple spray. Toby soon caught on to why I was coming out each morning, and would take one look at my hands safely tuck his paw beneath his belly. Now, he is almost back to normal. Occasionally, he still runs on three legs, but his swelling and redness is almost totally gone.

Side story: Tulshi asked me today for some of Toby’s medicine for his own foot. He cut it while fishing yesterday. I gave him the iodine and a napkin and he dabbed it on his tiny cut. As he was doing so, he nonchalantly told me that his neighbor’s wife had passed away yesterday. She had died at 10pm after being sick for quite some time. He then pulled out his phone and showed me the video of the burning of her body. Hindus burn their dead within hours of their passing, and hers took place at 3am last night. As we were sweetly slumbering on our soft beds beneath our ACs, Tulshi was out trekking around trying to gather enough wood for the fire. He is also fasting during the thirteen-day mourning period that follows. Very traditional people, these.

Three birthday parties: Piyash turned eight, Mitu turned eighteen, and I’m still not sure how old Shimanto turned. When I asked his cousin, he told me Shimanto had turned sixteen, but his legal age was fourteen.

“WHAT?” LEGAL AGE??” I asked. Sudipto looked at me like I was stupid.

“Of course!” he said with a sly grin. “I tell you I’m fourteen, but actually, I was born almost seventeen years ago.”

Well now I can’t believe anything I hear, I thought to myself. The more you talk to people, the less you understand. “WHY?”

“Because!” he said in English. I have learned that when they speak small in Englishes, it is because they think you are being stupid. Well, pardon me if I think lying about your age is strange.

He explained that many people reduce their age down by two or three years when it comes to their legal paperwork. It has something to do with working for the government or school or something he didn’t get across to me because he suddenly had to go. I sat there on the bed with my hand in my rice and my jaw on the floor.

We’ve gone off on a tangent. I was talking about birthday parties, wasn’t i? Piyash Mondol’s was first. He is a beautiful little boy whose eyes hold a million stars and whose smile can turn any rotten day to a good one. He comes over to play every day, and he and Brock have become fast friends. He told me of his birthday party eight days in advance, and made sure I would be coming and bringing the children.

We arrived just in time to cut the cake. All of Piyash and Brock’s little friends were there, and I was one of the only adults. After we ate the cake, payesh, and mishtis, we clamored up onto the bed to play a game.

Halfway through the evening, I had one of those moments where reality seems to disappear. There seemed to be a fray in the curtain of normalcy, and the light shone in and illuminated the extraordinary places that have glazed over and made ordinary by time. Many abnormal things can become normal in the span of a year.

Here I was, sitting in the dark, drenched in sweat, playing a game with a bunch of smiling children in South Asia. A three-year-old named Suriya was snuggled up on my lap, giggling naughtily whenever her little brown hands reached forward to mess up our game. They had been here all along, these children, and in reality, they would have kept existing even if I had never come to know them. But, I cannot imagine life before them; neither theirs, nor mine.

This is awfully cheesy, but sometimes I feel like I’ve been searching for these people my entire life, and now, I have finally found them.

Just like the music that played from the festival all night long, I am still hearing echoes of music that played that night with the children. This “music”, however, is of a different sort. This “music” is the type that warms and fills your heart and seeps down into your soul. It is a song you carry with you for the rest of your life.

Mitu’s birthday brought less sentiment, but was still fun. She is a friend who lives just across the bamboo bridge behind our house. She wore a brilliant green and gold sari, complemented by tinkling golden jewelry and heavy makeup. Her mehdi stained hands clasped mine as we stood for the pictures she demanded, and suddenly, I was glad to have changed from my village-y clothes into something more formal. Her mom found out that payesh is my favorite (payesh is rice pudding, btw), and guilted me into eating another bowl-full.

A week later at Shimanto’s birthday party, one of the guests tried to get me to finish the food off of her plate. I declined, saying that I had eaten, my belly was happy, and there was no room for more. She patted my belly and said “But it’s so big! How is there not room?” I laughed and made a show of sucking in. At this, she quipped: “Oh, now it has gotten so small! You must eat or you will become sick and die!”

This is the part where I tell you that this lady was none other than Raton’s mom. Raton, you may recall, is the guy from my last letter who leaned on the gate and proudly told me that I was “bhedy phat” in perfect English. The apple certainly does not fall far from the tree! No matter; I still love her. It’s about time for me to make pumpkin cake for her again.

Company is coming! John and Debbie Shetler from Kidron, Ohio will be gracing us with their presence in a few short days. They are the parents of Lisa Wedel, whose three eldest children I teach on Sunday-Thursday from 9:00 am to 1:00 pm. Said children are overjoyed that Grandpa’s are coming to visit. I’ve been assured that they are nice and won’t call me fat to my face.

I don’t know how long they are staying. I don’t know what we plan to do with them while they are here, or what we plan to show them. I don’t know much of anything. I only know that I am supposed to make food for the freezer and that we are going to have less school while they are here. I also know that they are bringing me a milk frother so I can pretend to be able to make LATTES. Yes, I am a basic youth girl.

(Also I can hear my neighbors arguing right now. They claim to be best friends, but their tone would suggest otherwise. Just thought I’d insert that to show the utter lack of privacy one experiences while living here.)

Hanging on our fridge are three wedding invitations that have been sent by dear friends of mine. One was accompanied by a card that read: “If you would have been here you would have been my bridesmaid.” (Insert sad face.) I’m not going to say I didn’t cry. In the depths of my desk are four more wedding invitations that are leftover from the last year that I’ve been here. Only two more weddings remain, so please pray for me on the thirtieth of October and the sixth of November, the Lord willing. I told my cousin I would buy a new sari, the same color as the bridesmaid dress I would have worn, and dress up to sit alone in the dark to listen. I got through my brother’s wedding by eating carrots and my grandpa’s funeral by eating uncooked ramen noodles. I’m sure I’ll find a way through this one too.

While I feel nothing but joy for my friends, I do feel a bit like I need to emotionally prepare. It would help if y’all would send me lame jokes or something on those days. Or chocolate. Or stuffed animals. Or Reese'sTM. Or all of the above- whatever works best for you. Basically, I just want to make you feel sorry for me, because I’m not in the mood to do it myself.

(An update on the arguing neighbors. They are now sitting next to each other telling stories as if they don’t live together and giggling like little girls. They are, in fact, not little girls.)

Alright, come see me then. There is still time to book the same tickets as John and Debbie Shetler. I’ve heard they are fine folks and would make excellent travel companions.

Ok byeeeeeee!

-Kalli