Part 22: Bits of Gold

March 23, 2023 Choyghoria, Batiaghata,

District Khulna, Bangladesh

“Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar

(God is great, God is great God is great, God is great) Ash-hadu an’ la ilaha ill Allah Ash-hadu an’ la ilaha ill Allah (I bear witness that there is no God but Allah I bear witness that there is no God but Allah) Ash-hadu ana Muhammadun Rasoolallah Ash-hadu ana Muhammadun Rasoolallah (I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah) Hayya ‘alas-Salah, Hayya ‘alas-Salah (Rush to prayer, Rush to prayer) Hayya 'alal Falah, Hayya ‘alal Falah, (Rush to success, Rush to success) Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, (God is great, God is great) La ilaha ill Allah” (There is no God but Allah)

Like clockwork: sunrise, noon, midday, sundown, and just as evening is turning to night. The azan has been a constant in Bangladesh since the first day I got here. No matter where I go in this country, the same call to prayer will sound at the same time every day. In a strange way, it’s become almost a comfort to me; a constant in the chaos. I love the azan. It’s one of the things that makes Bangladesh to me.

From our house, we can hear the azan from four different mosques. The mosques in our village aren’t grand and beautiful works of art like we see in the cities. Sometimes, I wonder if the azan coming from them matches the beauty and care with which the buildings were crafted. In our village, the mosques are made of tin, brick, concrete... whatever was cheapest, fastest, or most practical. The nearest is a little green tin shack surrounded by flowers. The muezzin who sings there has a very wavy voice, and I’ve memorized all his crescendos and vibratos. Another is a new mosque- a brick building with the speakers pointed directly toward our house. Sometimes, a little boy takes the mic and sings the prayer call. Some days, I think these two mosques must be competing to see who can go the loudest and longest. The third is toward the northwest. I don’t know where the fourth one is: the azan comes from the trees and sounds low and distant.

All four don’t start at once. Usually the one surrounded by flowers starts first, then the little boy. Next, the third. Then, barely making its way across the trees and the noise, the low and beautiful azan from the fourth can be heard. The Arabic words bounce from tree to tree, carried on spring breezes. The cows don’t look up from their grazing. The birds don’t flee from the noise. The sleeping dog doesn’t wake and howl like he used to. And sometimes, I barely notice.

There is one azan though; one I will never forget. Trevor’s family and I were in EZ bikes, riding through Khulna on the way home from the other side of the river. The sky was turning dark gray in the dusk, and splashes of orange were reflected from every window. We were making our way through a dirty alleyway when suddenly, from the depths of the city, came a low, haunting bellow: “Allahu akbar...” I think about it every time I find myself in that same narrow street. “Allahu akbar...”

They aren’t wrong. GOD is great. There is no GOD but GOD. But, that’s about where they lose me. Sometimes, I wonder which of this country’s two religions would make more sense to me if I were totally unbiased; an atheist, if you will. Would I rather subscribe to a religion with one God who would punish me if I sinned, hating me unless I did good works?

Or would I choose the direct opposite: a religion whose followers believed in millions of gods? Would I sooner agree with a faith that is largely based on culture and tradition, and join a people who don’t even fully understand their own beliefs? I think about the many conversations I’ve had with Sunil Kaka, our Hindu nightguard. Once, he told me that even Brahma, the creator, is afraid sometimes. Some nights, he can’t answer all my questions. He just clicks his teeth, laughs, and tells me that he doesn’t know the answer to that one.

Then, I think of the things my Muslim friend Maya faces. She covers her face every time she leaves her village. Tomorrow, she will start the annual month-long fasting period. Wherever she’s at, she has to stop and do her prayers. She likely won’t have a say in who she marries; she’ll marry the man her dad sees fit for his daughter. After marriage, she will be kept in complete submission to that husband, only doing what he says, wearing what he choses, and going where he tells her to.

Both say they are happy. Neither would leave. But I am so glad I do not have to make a choice between the two. I would choose JESUS infinitely over Muhammad; a GOD who is LOVE over an Allah who hates sinners. I would choose ONE in Heaven over Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva in the temple. I would choose a faith I know is TRUTH over anything else in the world.

______________

My last letter ended with the arrival of Greg Shetler’s, Lisa’s big brother. Of course, we had a grand time with them and their two children. For the most part, we did the normal company things that I've written about before, but there were a few highlights: We went to Kuakata for a few days. I’ve written about Kuakata before; we took Lisa’s folks there when they visited in October. To refresh your memory, Kuakata is a town on the Bay of Bengal. We did all the same things as before, but this time, I used my precious personal allowance and bought my own hotel room! Ah, the king size bed and the ocean-facing balcony were magnificent and very, very worth it.

One day on a remote beach we had traveled to, we encountered a little boy. He was wearing only a tattered shirt and a faded lungi. It was clear after interacting with him that he wasn’t quite normal; maybe short of a french fry or two? Nevertheless, he was very respectful and a generally happy fellow. He combed the beach, picking up trash and helping the fishermen bring their heavy fishing boats in from the sea. He soon caught on that we were looking for crabs, and eagerly joined in the search.

As I bent down to rub a dog’s belly, I soon found him crouching beside me. I asked him if he liked dogs and he emphatically said yes. “I feed this one, and the others, too,” he said as he pointed toward the tree line where a small pack of dogs was playing. We looked at the dog’s teeth and decided he was about a year old. I thanked him for feeding them. Of course, he had just jumped about fifty points in my books. I asked him questions about his family. He said that he and his mom lived “in that direction.” When I asked about his dad, he said, “My dad went out on the fishing boats one day and never came home.”

“Well, did he die, or did he run away?” I asked bluntly. One loses all tact upon entering Bangladesh. These types of questions are commonplace.

“He died.” the boy said matter-of-factly. “But we never found his body.”

“Are you going to be a fisherman like your dad when you grow up?” I asked.

“No. I like the land where the dogs are,” he replied.

Later, Trevor wanted to buy him some jhal muri, a spicy snack loved by all Bangladeshi children. He was so impressed to see that the boy insisted that all the other children take a bite of his own jhal muri before he would take any for himself.

Another highlight from the Kuakata trip was our jeep ride! We were planning to leave on the morning of the third day, but then Greg decided to take us out for a jeep ride. Trust me, it was unlike any ride I'd ever been on before.

Shall we even call it a jeep? It was more of a pickup with a roll cage over the bed. There were benches along the sides of the bed for people to sit. It looked like it belonged in the junkyard. I didn’t know what would happen, but I knew it’d be memorable.

Some got into the cab, but most piled into the back. Our driver was a twenty-something tough guy with the biggest hands I’ve ever seen. He drove like a madman. We careened across the beaches, and I wondered if this would be the day I would finally be reunited with my grandparents. Oh well! What a better place? What a better time?

We survived and made it to our destination: the place where the sea meets a river. It was magical. The calm waters of the baby narrowed into a river that snaked deeper into the jungle. A storm had come through some years before and left a path of destruction, reducing the trees nearest the water to twisted, bare trunks. It left a raw beauty unlike any I've ever seen.

Aside from a few fishermen, we were the only ones there. There was a flat boat anchored in the narrow river, and our driver asked us if we wanted to cross to the other side. It wasn’t far- maybe twenty yards? Boarding the boat looked pretty precarious, though. Only a ten-foot rotten and ancient-looking 2x4 acted as a gangplank.

Albeit, we clambered on and away we went on our short journey. I’m still unsure of how we got there. I believe that we were pushed by a stick: meaning, the water wasn’t very deep and the guy had a really long piece of bamboo and he kinda just pushed us along with that. I’m not good at explaining things, as you can see here. Also, the current helped.

We walked along the sand, feeling like the only ones in the world... kind of an amazing feeling in Bangladesh! Little crabs skittered out of our way, seeking refuge in their tiny holes. The kids bent down collecting shells and trying to find skipping rocks. Occasionally, a ship or fishing boat would pass by in the distance. After feasting our eyes on the emptiness, we decided it was time to turn back and start our journey back to Khulna.

Greg’s children got on on a really exciting day while they were here! On the first day of spring on the Bengali calendar, the Hindus go around splashing color everywhere. They had told us they were going to come “get us”, so we were supposed to wear our old clothes.

It began in the morning. The little kids came over with colored powder and threw it on everyone who came near. They mixed the powder with water and sprayed colored water on everyone and everything. Not even the dog was safe. I decided to join in the fun, so I went outside the gate and let them color me all up.

The fun ended when one of the kids mixed cow dung and urine and chased Whitney down the road. She promptly came to me and gave me a hug. YUCK! It did not smell nice at all. We sprayed off under the faucet.

After the powder and dyed water ran out, we all walked to the river to wash off. We made water slides down the steep, muddy bank. Fifteen muddy and colorful kids splashed in the water. At one point, there was much flailing and rushing to get out of the water when a goat’s carcass came floating by. (How nice.)

The color didn’t come off very well. The next day, Brandi’s hair was still blue and Brock's ears were still green. I had bits of pink around my eyes. My clothes from that day will never be the same.

Shortly after returning to Khulna from Kuakata, I had to make a trip to Brother Shanto’s house one morning to deliver a cake for their oldest son’s girlfriend/fiance, who was making a trip from the city that day. Upon my arrival, I told them I’d stay for a little before going back home. Shathi looked at me in disbelief.

“You’re not staying for lunch? You have to stay for lunch! I told Hridoy just this morning that if you came, I was going to have you stay.”

I tried to tell them that we had lunch plans already. Trevor and Lisa wanted to take Greg’s to one of our favorite restaurants, Firefly. Of course, Shanto and Shathi wouldn’t hear any of it.

“Call them and tell them you aren’t going with them.” they commanded. Well, I decided, I had always wanted to eat lunch with them. I have always said that, someday, I will drop in for lunch and eat with them. I supposed today would be as good a day as any other.

And so I called Lisa. “Tomar iccha,” she told me. Your wish. They weren’t doing much that day, she told me, and if I wanted to stay and have lunch at Shanto’s, that was great with them.

And so I stayed. And stayed. And stayed. Shathi wouldn’t let me help her work, so I sat. I got in on Shanto’s phone calls with his family. I walked to the dokan with Antor. I listened to Hridoy’s problems. I petted the cat and held the baby goats and read the news on my phone. I sat around until 2:00 in the afternoon when Shanto finally said, “Let’s eat, Kalli is hungry.”

After the proclamation of lunchtime, everyone must bathe. The males of the house took to the pond for their afternoon bathing opportunities, while the ladies chose the privacy of behind the curtain. I didn’t partake in the communal activity. Finally, we sat down to eat. I was grateful that Antor humbled himself to sit next to me. It was beneficial for both of us, because I ended up sneaking most of my pork onto his plate when his mom wasn’t looking. She’s a fantastic cook, but I don’t like anyone’s pork curry. I’ll tell you why. Bangladeshis are of the mind that the best part of the pig is the fat. Sometimes, they even leave the skin on. Sometimes, the skin still has little bristly hairs on it. *shivers* I have too much self-respect to eat that. What’s more, if you do end up getting a piece of solid meat, it’s usually so greasy that it immediately clogs your arteries and gives you a thousand pimples. I still had enough to eat; Shathi had made me a special pot of soya beans.

After we had eaten, everyone started their afternoon naps. As I went around saying my “thanks” and “see you again”s, they looked slightly dumbfounded to discover that I was actually leaving. I assured them that I had had a good time, I had loved the food, and I would be OK to find my own ride home. I walked out to the road, hailed an EZ bike, and rode to Chakrakhali.

From Chakrakhali, I had to take a rickshaw van home. One of my favorite drivers, Pulok Uncle, informed me that he had just seen the family riding down the road only minutes ago.

“They didn’t tell you they were leaving?” he said with a laugh.

Sure enough, when I got home, no one was there. I didn’t expect Tulshi, the guard, to be there either. He goes home to eat his rice every afternoon, and I figured he wouldn’t be back yet. But, thankfully, he was home and I didn’t have to sit outside and wait.

I don’t like being in our big house alone. I’m not afraid, but I don’t like the feeling of a place that’s usually filled with the laughter and voices of children suddenly so quiet. So, I played with Toby in the yard. I picked up all the trash and balls and shoes. I looked at the new flowers Tulshi had planted in the garden.

“Are you going to come plant sunflowers with me or what?” our neighbor suddenly yelled at Tulshi and me through the gate. They said they were going to the empty field right beside our house, the field that’s right in front of my best friend Madhuri’s house. I decided why not? I could tag go to my friend’s house and see what she was up to.

(And now I realize that I haven’t told you about Madhuri yet. How embarrassed I am. She is a 20-year-old girl who lives in a one-room mud house right behind our house. Her name means “sweet”, and I’ve never met anyone who lives up to her name more than she does. Madhuri has some very beloved pet cows that she spends the afternoons with. Some days, I go sit in the pasture with her and her cows. Other days, I walk around the village with her and I love her to bits.)

Madhuri was already outside. They were working on building a new kitchen, but she stopped to help when she saw us coming. It was her family’s garden that we had come to plant,

after all. It took a lot of convincing for them to let me help. You see, they don’t think foreigners should work. Tulshi informed me that they know we are able to work, they just think that we shouldn’t. WHAT IS THIS? I decided that they needed to learn that we actually should, and that we like to. I don’t think they would have ever let me had I not ripped the seed bag from their hands and indignantly squatted down in the dirt beside them. I told them of when I was little and my mom and I would plant flowers together every year on my birthday. I am able to work.

We planted sunflowers around the entire perimeter of the little field; two by two, eight inches apart, by hand. An hour and a half later, the seeds ran out and we were finished. They planted lentils in the middle, and squash against the rows of sunflowers. (The family eventually did come home. They had gone to Batiaghata Bazaar.)

That day became one of those golden memories I will never forget. Sometimes, a person can find gold in the most unsuspecting of places, like playing marbles in the rain with a little green-eyed boy, watching the dogs play in the sand, waiting on the vegetable seller to come back from his prayers, or sitting in a field surrounded by coconut trees and friends who have become family.

And sometimes, just when you think the love has run out, they find another way to show that they love you. It’s not always what you expected, but it never fails.

Well, okay then. That about gets everything caught up. Pray for good health over here. Some of us could really use it.

See you soon,

-Kalli