Part 24: "To Everything There is a Season"

May 8, 2023 Choyghoria, Batiaghata,

District Khulna, Bangladesh

They were bent low beneath the glaring sun. The saree-clad backs of my neighbor ladies were covered in sweat as they stooped and squatted to pluck dal (lentils) from the field. Soon, I joined them, and soon, the sun was glaring down on my back. My red, shining red face was gleaming with an embarrassing amount of sweat. I listened to their chatter, not hearing it. If someone isn’t talking directly to my face, I have to use my brain to understand. And now, it was too hot to use my brain.

I could make out some of their conversation, though. They were talking about someone’s daughter leaving. Suddenly, I caught on that I was the subject of their conversation. I was the daughter who was leaving. “But why does our daughter have to leave?” the lady closest to me asked.

In the beginning, a year-and-a-half ago, I would have rolled my eyes at her words. I’m someone else’s daughter, not yours, I would have stubbornly thought. But today, I will welcome the comment. I don’t have many more days of being this lady’s daughter; her “mani,” as she’s affectionately taken to calling me.

“That’s life,” a wise voice rose from the dal plants. “They don’t come for their whole life. They have to come, and they have to leave.” Funny, I thought. Not even a week before, I told the owner of that voice the same thing.

Bangladesh has been like a song. There have been bright parts, parts where the major chords swell into beautiful harmonies. There have been minor parts, when the nights have been extra dark and lonely. The chords of love and of loss dot the page, creating one epic symphony.

But even the most beautiful songs must come to an end at some point, and my song is almost over. I want to stay. I want to go home. Oh, why can’t we be in two places at once, I think.

Is it true, what they say? That it is better to have loved and have lost, than to never have loved at all? Is it true, I wonder. My mom said it is. I think of the tired voice arising from the

dal field. “They have to come, and they have to leave.” To everything there is a season. ____________

I hardly know how to begin this letter. The last one ended during a very busy time, so this one must begin at a busy time. I’ll try to keep it short and just tell you the important stuff.

Easter.

We didn’t get Easter ham or pies this year. We had a service in our church with a big Bangla meal at our house afterwards. Kelly’s family and the Gopalgonj members came down; and the Talla members, Harun, Joyanti, and their family were also invited. They only live two hours away, and he has a motorcycle, so we thought it would be easy for them to come. But, they called on Saturday night and said they were sick and wouldn’t be able to make it.

After church, everyone came to our house for the aforementioned Bangla meal. Our maid/occasional cook, Dipti, made chicken curry, mango dal, pumpkin and potato, and of course, rice. I can’t remember what we served for dessert because that was a long time ago, and dessert isn’t important to me. (I’m kidding, OK.) I’m guessing we probably served them cake and ice cream. Yes, that’s what it was. It’s coming back to me now.

Shiv Puja:

It is said that the Muslims have two major holidays: Eid ul-fitr and Eid ul-adha. Likewise, the Christians have two holidays: Christmas and Easter. The Hindus are said to have two major holidays: Durga Puja and Kali Puja.

“Major” is the key word here, because the Hindus actually have thirteen holidays in 12 months. The big one that takes place in April is Shiv Puja.

Allow me a backstory: As you’ve probably already learned, the Hindus worship many, many gods. However, in these many, are three main gods: Brahma, the creator; Vishnu, the preserver; and Shiv, the destroyer. Every spring, Hindus worship Shiv, the destroyer.

The festival lasts five days. As part of a ritual, a “faithful man” (one who has fasted by eating nothing but fruit for the last seven days), has big metal hooks stuck through his back. The hooks are attached by ropes to a bunch of coconuts, which can easily weigh up to 50 lbs. Then, he drags the load attached to his back up the road and down to the river. During another ritual, other men have 5-inch nails stuck through their cheeks, tongue, and above the nose right between the eyes. To see it is like witnessing something straight out of National Geographic.

Madhuri, my friend who lives behind us, wanted me to come over one day during Shiv Puja and see her outfit. She was going out, and you always have to look your best when you go out. Toby the dog came with me, and while we were there, Madhuri’s mom fed us something called jalopy. Jalopy is a dessert that is made by piping batter into hot oil. It makes a pretty swirly design, and once the batter is fried, the whole thing is dipped into sugar water. It’s impossibly sweet, and I don’t like it at all.

But what do you do when someone’s sweet mom hands you a jalopy? You eat half and share the other half with your dog, of course. I didn’t know if he would like it, but after one bite, Toby promptly sat down and shook his paw for another. He’s such a gentleman. I happily fed him more and more until it was all gone.

You may be wondering why I’m boring you with another dog story. Well, it gets rather interesting after this. Once Toby and I left Madhuri’s house, I turned in the direction of my favorite lady’s house. Maybe she was going out too, and I wanted to see what she was wearing.

At the beginning of the road to my favorite lady’s house is a date tree that has been deemed scared by the Hindus. Since we were in the middle of Shiv Puja, someone had been to the tree to make offerings to the gods that live inside the tree or dance around it or something I don’t know. Anyway, one of the things that had been left there as an offering was a jalopy.

Toby could hardly believe his luck. After peeing on the sacred tree, he snatched the offering in his mouth and lied on the ground to eat it. I was rather amused at the thought of Toby eating the offering because, of course, I knew the offering was no good anyway. I would have happily let Toby eat his treat if it weren’t for the two young guys who stopped their motorcycle to stare.

By looking, I couldn’t tell if they were Hindu or Muslim. If they had been wearing prayer caps and panjabis, I would have gleefully done nothing. They would most likely even get their jollies out of it. If they had been wearing orange or white lungis, or beaded necklaces or bracelets, I would have known at once that they were Hindu and probably would have apologized. But alas, no such proclamation of their religion was shown. I decided not to risk it. I begrudgingly took the jalopy from Toby and put it back. After all, if they were Hindu, I didn’t want

them to think we were disrespecting their religion. Hindus are a minority here, and sometimes they can be a little sensitive.

Toby was fine; he got distracted by a dog fight going on nearby and quickly rushed to help. He eventually got his deserved jalopy.We went to town the next day, and I bought him a whole bag of them because he had been such a good boy. Now for the most major happening of Shiva Puja. On the fourth day, the same day that Toby ate the offering, those same “faithful” men who insert fish hooks into their back and stakes through their face climb a date tree. It’s quite the scene. This year, it happened right beside our house, so we went to watch from the back of the crowd. Tulshi and Bishnu were still considered “unclean”, as their thirteen-day mourning period following their dad’s death still hadn’t ended. They weren’t allowed to go near the tree, so they stood at the edge of the crowd with us.

And what a crowd it was! The entire road, plus the field beside it was packed with people. There was no way to get through the crowd except to literally push people aside. At the base of the tree, the climbers were getting ready. A group of men and boys were chanting something I couldn’t understand and drumming excitedly on their drums.

Soon, we saw the first man effortlessly shimmy up the tree. For some reason, the first man was blindfolded. Four more followed. The five danced in the tree and cut big bunches of dates. They threw them into the crowd, and hundreds of eager hands reached up to catch them. If you catch one, you are granted blessings for the whole year ahead. But, if it touches the ground, it doesn’t count. All the while, the drummers drummed, the “holy men” chanted, and the crowd cheered.

Once all the dates had been cut off and thrown, the men started coming down one by one. Four of them came sliding down normally like we’ve seen the neighbor boys do so many times. But when they came to the ground, they fell into the crowd below and started violently shaking. I couldn’t see because the crowd was so thick, but apparently they took the men and laid them on the ground, where they continued to shake. What was the point of this, I don’t know. I personally think it was all part of their act. Lisa thinks it was because they were on drugs, and Whitney insists that it is evil spirits. In reality, it’s probably a combination of all three.

When there was only one man left in the tree, we could see that he was doing things a little different. He had blindfolded his eyes again. You see, this was the same man who had come up the tree with a blindfold on. He then cut a big, spiky leaf from the tree and tied it around his head, covering his blindfolded eyes. After that was all done, he did a handstand. Mind you, this is on the TOP of a palm tree. He held his handstand for a good two or three minutes. When he got tired, he practically tumbled down and out of his handstand and I was afraid he would fall out of the tree all together.

The next thing he did truly was terrifying. This blindfolded man grabbed the end of two of the palm fronds and swung out headfirst. His arms, holding onto the palm fronds, were outstretched, and his head pointed toward the ground like a swan diver in perfect form. After holding there for some time, his legs began to search for the tree truck behind him. Blindly, his legs flailed behind him, trying to find something to grab onto so he could get down. But, he was so far away from the trunk he couldn’t reach. I was sure he was going to fall. He was surely so tired from all his acrobating. Slowly, he began to swing his body forward and backward until his legs could grasp the rough trunk of the tree. He wrapped his legs around the tree as he released the rest of his body from the palm fronds. Then, he made his blindfolded, headfirst descent down the tree to join the rest of the shaking men on the ground.

We heard later that two men had fallen out from the tree in two other villages. One of them was left with minor injuries, and the other one died. He was only 21. Bangla New Year. Pohela Boishakh, Bangladesh New Year, was on April 14th. It was the first day of the Bangla year 1430. It also fell on the last day of Shiva Puja. Thus, they had a big fair in the field right in front of our house. We went, and I found my little friends Imon and Rudro. We walked around together all evening, buying food for each other. At one point, Rudro’s eyes lit up when he saw a guy selling a lemon drink. “Will you drink one?” he asked with shining twinkles in his eyes. I have lived here long enough to know that this is not a question. It is a command. Well, you see, we had a problem here because I do not enjoy this lemon drink. I simply cannot bear it. I can usually drink or eat anything for the sake of other people. I have been served fish heads, pork with the fur still attached, and fresh cow milk with floaties on the top. But this lemon drink is, by far, the worst. It’s like weak lemonade with half foam/half fizz and SALT. Disgusting. I tried to look enthused as Rudro handed me mine. I drank one sip and instantly felt the urge to throw up. I studiously turned away as I gagged. Rudro had his down in two sips. “It’s good, isn’t it?” Rudro asked. I drank another sip so I wouldn’t have to answer it. “Here, why don’t you finish it?” I offered. “I am full and I can’t finish it all.” It was true. My stomach was full. He and smiling Imon had been buying me food all night. Just like Toby at the sacred tree, Rudro couldn’t believe his luck. I was so happy when he took the drink from me and gulped it down.

Tulshi’s birthday and big meal.

To mark the end of the thirteen-day mourning period, the family of a deceased person hosts a big meal at their house with everyone they know. Tulshi’s family had theirs on the day after his 33rd birthday. The day before his birthday, I asked Tulshi how he was going to celebrate. He told me that he wouldn’t even come to work on his birthday, as their family had to get ready for the deal on the following day. “I’ll have more birthdays, but dad won’t,” he told me.

Well now, we can’t be having this, we thought. Everyone needs to have a birthday. Death is part of life, but birthdays are too. The next day, Brandi and I walked over to his house to see what was going on. He wasn’t around, so I sat next to his mom and talked. Sitting next to his mom and talking brings me so much joy. She reminds me of the little old ladies I used to take care back at Bethel Home. Her mind has been totally overrun by dementia and she sits and babbles mindlessly all day.

Tulshi stumbled out of his room. Horrified, I apologize that we had “broken his sleep,” as they say in Bangla. He assured me that it was ok because it was time for him to get up anyway. Soon, the rest of the family came bursting through the clearing into their house. A chorus of “Happy Birthday!!!” rang out. They had come to ask if he wanted a cake. He smiled and said that a chocolate cake would be good. We all walked home and Lisa got to work in the kitchen.

Long after the sun went down, we walked again along the brick path to Tulshi’s house. Many, many people were at the house preparing for the next big day. Tulshi rushed to put on a

nice shirt. We sang “Happy Birthday” and cut the cake. Whitney smeared cake all over Tulshi’s face and all over my arm. Of course, we had to take pictures. Even when I asked for a towel to wash my arm off, Tulshi wouldn’t wash the cake off of his face.

He took us out back where they were digging the holes for cooking. They were going to make four big holes for cooking fires. The cooks would begin cooking at 1:30 pm the next day. Already the big cooking pots had arrived. Trevor, always eager to get back to excavating, grabbed a shovel and started digging. We drank cha and started to leave. “I am just so happy,” he said. “I am so happy you came. If you all hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have had a birthday.”

The next day, the day of the big meal, was a Friday- church day. We left church right after the service so we could go home and get ready to go. It was just getting dark when we arrived. The cooks were still cooking at their massive fires. All of Tulshi and Bishnu’s friends were running around like ants, helping wherever they could. We got sat down in the corner, right in front the roaring fans.

Then came the food. So much food. Such delicious food, and finished off perfectly with that heavenly doi. I gave my bones and half of my fish to a dog that had come to sit next to me. Full, fat, and happy, we rolled back home.

We learned later that they had served 520 people. I had the time of my life. Tulshi and Bishnu’s people have become our people, and I was surrounded by familiar faces in every direction. Sitting there, I remembered again how odd and new this was not even two years ago. Now, it’s become home. I have grown to love these people. How can I ever leave this? I asked myself.

To everything there is a season.

A change in the weather:

Speaking of seasons (but in a slightly different tone now), we are in a HOT one. The heat index has been seen at 114 at the highest. Pair that with an 80% humidity and this Kansas girl about croaks. Some days, the heavy clouds break and the rain comes, cooling the earth and bringing a much-needed reprieve for everyone.

And they work. The village people work in their rice fields, cutting and stacking and sweating in the Bengal sun. They gather big bunches of harvested rice onto their heads and carry it to their house. I’m not sure how they don't keel over from the heat. I can barely sit in the shade without sweating. But then again, as Raton kindly reminded me that one day, I am “very fat.”

One day, the kids and I walked down to the river in an effort to combat the heat. Even before we got there, we smelled a putrid smell. It smelled like death and rotting horribleness. There is a little berm- a raised pathway where people walk- that obstructs the view of the river from that part of the road. We clambered up the bank and discovered at once the source of the smell.

First of all, the river was not there. The tide had gone out and had taken all the water with it. All we were left with was a teeny trickle running through a wide berth of deep, shiny mud. Second of all, on the edge of the waterline, was the hugest bloated cow I have ever seen. It was surrounded by a pack of dogs that were sniffing and inspecting it. We weren’t sure if it was a real cow that had once been alive, or an idol that had been thrown into the river as they do. It looked so much bigger than all the cows we see around here. But, the smell. It was definitely a dead cow.

We walked along the river to a spot far away. Since we had coe all the way out here, we decided to slide around in the mud. Then, we walked across the riverbed to the other side. That was a lot of exercise, walking through knee-deep mud! It was very cool to see our village from the other side of the river.

A random outing:

One more thing I wanted to do before I leave was drive around a bit and see some things around here that I had never seen before. One Saturday, we loaded up into the van and drove south, toward Batiaghata. Batiaghata is the name of our upazila (like county). It is also the name of the town that serves as the “county seat” of sorts. There is a police station, fire station, college, and other normal townish stuff. We drove around for a bit before moving on. We drove all the way until we came to a big amusement park! I had never realized there was one not that far away from our house!

We turned around and stopped at a little outdoor “coffee shop” right along the river. These coffee shops are set up entirely for picture-taking. (Selfies are very important here.) All the tables were charmingly set up outside. A big LED-lit heart made a perfect place to stand for selfies. We got two plates of fries, one plate of fuchka, and seven cokes.

From there, we drove to one of my favorite places: the chicken and naan place. Five stars, every time.

In closing...

Other than that, I don’t have many more stories to tell. We made a trip to Talla to visit Brother Harun’s, a dog peed on my leg, and I listened to more friends get announced. Normal life.

The program and graduation is planned for May 14th at Chitra Resort in Narail. It’s a two hour drive from Khulna, and all three families are getting together and spending a night there. Whitney has been busily planning and preparing everything for her graduation. We’ve been practicing our program, and the students all know their parts.:)

Then, it will be two weeks until Trisha and I board a plane for Singapore. Next, on to San Francisco, and then, Denver. And that’s where my family will (hopefully) be waiting for me. Trisha has one more flight to her beloved Kansas City. I am going straight to Buffalo Wild Wings for some bone-out asian zing wings dipped in bleu cheese dressing. (Please don’t judge; I am well aware that my choices are controversial.)

I am ready to go home, but I want to stay. Many words could be said; songs written, even. Already, poems have been born from melancholy emotion. But words that came from the dal field still ring in my mind: “They have to come, and they have to go.”

To everything there is a season...

See you soon,

-Kalli