Part 8: Six Months Later

March 13, 2022 Siza Court, Monipuri Para

Tejgaon, Dhaka, Bangladesh

March 2nd was for some, a sadder day than for others, but still a hard day for all. That was the day we loaded up the van and headed for Dhaka. Papa Travis and Mama Cheryl, Seth, Timmy, Grace, and Lauryn had to say goodbye to their friends, neighbors, new brothers and sisters, pets, and the village that loves them. We had planned to leave at 6:30 am. By 6:10 am, thirty people were already standing outside in the chill morning air, wiping their eyes with their saris and crying into their beards. I set all my houseplants out for the guard to take care of. “Give water now and then.” (Let’s not mention the two houseplants that have already died in my care.) Travis loaded the last suitcase into the trunk and closed it. Hugs. Tears. A little laughter in remembrance of the good times.

I said goodbye too, but only for a month. Still, it was hard to hold back the tears. It was so plain to see how many people had grown to love Travis and Cheryl. It showed in the man who wasn't able to speak a word to them when saying goodbye; in the lady who walked from her home twenty minutes away in the early morning. It showed in every tear that fell. Travis and Cheryl’s love showed in return.

On March 6, they flew away. My new Papa Trevor drove them to the airport, and Brandi and I rode along. I secretly rejoiced every time traffic stopped. Each delay meant I didn’t have to say goodbye just yet. Maybe, just maybe, the Dhaka traffic would look out for me this time. “Would it be possible to get so stuck in traffic that Trav’s would miss their flight?” I wondered.

Not today. Soon, I could see the red Bangla/English/Arabic airport sign shining in the twilight sky. We pulled up to the airport and they unloaded their seventy-eight and a half suitcases, each one as big as the moon. Then, it was the time I had been dreading since meeting my family: time to tell them goodbye. I didn’t know what to say. How could I thank them enough? How could I tell them how much they mean to me? How could I express how much they had done for me when I was new and scared in this country? In the end, I couldn’t say anything. I just hugged them all and told them I’d miss them, and that I’d see them soon. Seth’s sentence of knowledge: “Without parting, there could be no reunion.”

Now, the Khulna house sits empty, awaiting the arrival of the new family, Trevor and Lisa Wedel, Whitney, Brandi, Brock, and Kylee (aged 13-3). I think my dog must be getting lonely. I can only hope he is getting lots of attention and belly rubs from the guard. Trevor’s family remains in Dhaka for another few weeks, painstakingly learning the language of the people. They are mighty fine folk. Of course, they are, because Trevor and I have the same Great-Grandpa, Grandpa Henry.

And so, I too am in Dhaka. My dusty brick paths have been exchanged for crusty alleyways, the cows passing by now resemble tinkling rickshaws, and the tall, graceful palms

have morphed into tenement buildings that stretch ever upward. The sweet scent of the blooming bougainvillea has changed into the musty odors of whatever lives beneath the streets. The second-story apartment with the friendly, saluting guard is my temporary home. I am staying with Daniel and Amber, the Dhaka family. I have a short walk each morning to the CSI flat, where Trevor’s are staying, and where we are having school. Every day, the windows of our office-classroom rattle with the passing of the helicopters. They seem close enough to touch as they return home to the base very near to our building. Hearing the whistle of a fighter jet, I look up just in time to see it disappear off into the distance. A passenger plane roars above, taking people far away. All over the city, Honking horns and ringing bells can be heard in the bumpertobumper traffic. People weave in and out, talking on the phone, to one another, and to us. Five times a day, the prayer calls ascend up and up and out over this crowded city, harmonizing with one another to create an eerie and beautiful minor song.

Dhaka always reminds me of being new. This room is the same room I crashed in after landing in Bangladesh. I was so tired, I would have slept on the street if I had to. (Thankfully, Daniel’s are nice, and that wasn’t asked of me.) That table is where I scarfed down Amber’s delicious chicken tacos, desperate for something other than airplane food. And as I sit in my Dhaka room, so many memories come back; memories of those first muggy days in Bangladesh. Those were the days when everything was so new and glittery, and my eyes were filled with silvery wonder every time I went outside. Six months later, the enchantment has worn off, replaced by a sense of familiarity and security. Six months ago, I didn’t know what was going to become of me. I had a feeling I was going to be OK, but I had a lot of questions. I had just said goodbye to everything I knew: my family, my friends, and my home.

I wish I had known that waiting for me on this other side of the world were new friends: friends with twinkling brown eyes and easy smiles. I wish I had known that I would see them every day, and we’d sit beneath trees and make fun of my broken Bangla. They’d pull out their English books and we’d read together, my finger pointing out each word as I helped them sound out the big ones. They wouldn’t understand a word they read, but they would be so enthused.

Also waiting for me was the little brother I had always prayed for, plus two more I never knew I needed. I finally got the little boys I have been missing from my life. One has brown skin and calls me “Auntie”, and the other has green eyes and calls me “Miss Kalli.” I finally got my dog: one who howls at the prayer calls and keeps every single nightmare away. New neighbors would soon be peering into my bag as I headed home from the bazaar. “What did you buy? What will you do with it? How do you cook that?” They would bring us too much fruit and too many sweets and sandals that are too small for our American feet. They would invite us into their homes and feed us like kings with the best food their money could buy. I wish I had known that I had a whole village full of new uncles and aunts and brothers and sisters waiting to welcome me with open arms. I would miss my family, but it would be OK. I had a new one waiting to be known.

I wish I had known that the little things would be OK too. This country has excellent peanut butter, fans, deodorant, WiFi, friendly folk who are always eager to help, and chicken and naan. The power usually comes back on when it goes off, and hot days can be spent under a fan or in a cold shower.

If given the chance, would I travel back in time and tell myself not to worry? Maybe I’m glad I didn’t know. Maybe I wouldn’t cherish them as much if I had expected them. Maybe, instead of telling myself all the good things that were awaiting me, I would just tell myself that everything was going to be more than OK.

Come see me, tickets are cheap. Also, tell my friends to stop getting engaged. It’s neat and I’m happy for them and stuff, but it’s getting old. So am I.

Ok see you love you byeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

-Kalli, Kallis, Kal, Kelly, Caylee, Meg, Megatron, BAEF, Sue, Suzie, Unruh, EricatressagrantKALLI!, Kali, Miss Kalli, Auntie, Didi, or whatever name you know me by.