18th August, 2015
Dreary night of a long day.
I had finished work and then stepped in to find myself at a rehearsal that seemed to be never-ending. We JUST wanted it to be over.
Returning home, the trudge across town on a limited budget felt heavier than usual. I hitched a ride from a friend and then caught a rickshaw only to cover one-fifth of the distance. Standing at a junction on a tumultuous Dhaka street, I started the wait and the fight for public transportation. The day seemed to have begun a long, long while ago.
Finally, I managed to stop a leguna and hop on to it. I was the only girl in it, as was usual at that hour of the night. I promptly
put in my ear-phones and assumed a non-confrontational resting position. I got all my wits
together, held on for dear life and settled in for the long, treacherous journey back home. Few minutes in. I was already exhausted, the black smoke and loud horns of Dhaka City had worn me down to shreds.
The initial frenzy in my head eventually subsided and I was
free to gaze. Notice lights, colors, people. I stared out at the night outside and a million thoughts
circled my head. The evening became a blur of the City and a playlist of randomized songs, picked automatically. My emotions held hostage by an electronic circuit.
Suddenly, I caught a whiff of bokul phul. I never liked the smell
of bokul, it was too strong and always gave me headaches. I looked around me, not a vendor was in sight and the leguna was moving forward at a breakneck speed. It was definitely not originating from any of the dark figures and angry
exhausted faces huddled inside the belly of the vehicle! In the midst of everything in the City smelling like smog the strong
perfume had caught me by surprise, especially because I could not figure
out where it was coming from. The world was spinning out of control,
what was that smell? Had I finally lost my mind?
I was feeling quite perplexed when I finally noticed him. The helper of the leguna. He was wearing a thin garland of bokul around his neck, put over his shirt but carefully tucked
under the flaps of his shirt collar. He was saving it.
This was the season when fresh beli flowers took over and inundated the streets of Dhaka. So, where had he found it? Was it for someone? Was it from someone? Did he have a lover who sat under the street lamps at traffic stops? One who woke up early in the mornings and gathered the last of the bokul phuls of the season? Had she picked the rarest,
freshest of flowers for him? Every time the wheels sped up, the smell hit me. Like a deep sigh, a passing memory.
Sometimes I wish I didn't get lost so easily and hunger over never-ending stories.
