The Streets of Dinajpur

by Ria Ryan (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Bangladesh

Ajrita flicked round, grinned and dashed around another corner of the busy market stalls. As I love doing whenever I’m in Bangladesh, I snaked through all the stalls. I absorbed hues of red, orange, green and Indian yellows. Stall owners around me were selling daal, mounds of turmeric, jasmine, boiled eggs and various species of fish. Fish is the main source of produce in Bangladesh as it lies on the coast. This is most true for Dinajpur which lies in the Rajshahi district, home of my grandparents and their ancestors for as many generations as I remember. Ajrita was always causing mischief and running off into the local market. Locals have always scolded village troublemakers like her. I knew she would turn up around the house later so I decided to head back. “Ayyy rickshaw!” I called out from the busy side road. Rickshaws, scooters, motorbikes and auto-rickshaws littered the streets. But there were no cars, the streets were too narrow for them. As I got onto the rickshaw I grimaced at the pain I was about to endure on the bumpy, pothole ridden streets. Nonetheless, I examined the patterns on the hood of the rickshaw: elephants with several arms, intricate flowers and vines looping round with bursting colours of dark green, blue and pink. As dusk came the small village became populated with vast fireflies of light. Despite chatter and distant laughter, there was an odd feeling about the place. The villagers would scowl if you looked at them. Open sewage everywhere would often dominate my attention, making my eyes prick with tears. The elixir of smells from the chai shops on choy rasta road would make me forget and I’d wipe the tears away. The rickshaw screeched to a stop outside Chairman Dadu’s house - my grandad. Although he passed many years ago, the house still goes by his name. “Dosh taka” the rickshawala said. I pulled 10 taka from inside my phone case and watched the skinny, meagre man heave and cycle away. As the last rays of sun disappeared behind the clouds and palm trees, a plump woman came bustling from the house. “Tome camon aso?” she laughed as she put her arm around me, she was asking how I was. “Bhalo, good.” I replied Before I could say more I was in the kitchen and my aunts, uncles, cousins, friends were all hurrying about the place. Dishes of pilau, korma and tilapia covered every part of the tablecloth. I left the kitchen to wash and walked across an opening to admire the scene. It felt like a warm bubble amidst the grand house, with hanging baskets and small pigeon’s nests on the sides. Just as I was turning back towards the kitchen I saw Ajrita’s shadow run to the front of the house. She was back. Ajrita was a house maid, the ghost of the house. Her family had left her with my grandparents when she was 5 and she had been working in the house for the past decade to send money back to her family in rural Dinajpur. Born into poverty as she was, my grandparents also promised to marry her to a wealthy and becoming man when she became of age. I followed her without her knowing - through some ominous alleyways and winding paths until we came into an opening. Ajirita ran into a shabby hut, pulled out some torn 1 taka notes and danced to the sweet stall next door. The dilapidated huts were teeming with children: laughing, playing and chasing each other. One 8-year-old girl was playing tag with her infant brother attached to a sling on her back. Not a single parent in sight. A group of boys were playing badminton behind piles of rubble - one of them sprinted to grab a shuttlecock before it landed in a mound of sewage nearby. As I turned away I thought of my childhood travels in Bangladesh: sunsets from the roof, drinking coconut water, wholesome dinners, fireworks during Eid with family and chasing goats around the house. Night fell as I approached the house and the smell of burning filled my nose. Nowadays, whenever I smell smoke I remember my times there...