One usually realises the magic of his own land when he goes far away from it. I've been away from Bangladesh for one and a half months. I've just visited a country whose foreign policies are a matter of limitless discussion and debate all over the world. I think my readers have already guessed the name of the country I have just been to. No matter what U.S.A. did, does or will do in the upcoming years, it still remains and will most probably remain as the dreamland of millions of people.
I was there with nineteen other students from Bangladesh, India and Pakistan to take part in the South Asian Undergraduate Student Leadership Institute 2005. Sponsored by the U.S. Department of State, this program is an effort to build better mutual understanding between the U.S.A and the South Asian region. Even though the whole program had been a very intensive one, we had our moments of fun and hours of entertainment. But amidst the picturesque rolling hills of Pennsylvania, the lively classroom discussions at Dickinson College, the bustling yet gorgeous New York City and the groomed Washington D.C., this Bangladeshi soul sometimes felt a twinge of detachment, a feeling that was earlier unknown to her. The stir-fried food, the wide range of beverages or the gustatory American desserts were at times too bland for our South Asian taste buds. Thus, evenings were spent preparing simple yet mouth-watering egg curry, plain rice, spicy mashed potato, or fried eggplant in our apartments. Never before did I realise that devouring white steaming rice and
begun bhaji from a huge saucepan could bring so much of contentment in one. In big places like New York or Washington D.C. some of our sincere effort was always there to locate a South Asian eating place and satiate our pent-up craving for hot, spicy chicken curry, biriyani, naan or kabab…
The 6 weeks spent in the U.S. taught me one important lesson that is, living in a first world country is not always as pleasant as it sounds, especially when no one around you can speak in your mother tongue. I know I was lucky to have 6 friends along with me but even then whenever I spotted South Asian looking people in New York, Washington D.C. or Pennsylvania I always wished that at least one of them would turn out to be a Bangladeshi. However, most of the times they were Indians… Maybe this is why it felt like finding some long lost relatives when I came across Bangladeshis working in the South Asian restaurants of Lexington Avenue or in the stores of Chinatown or mid Manhattan.
I missed the monsoon of my country while I was away from it. Rain in every country probably has its own tone. As we soaked ourselves in the American rain, it somehow felt different from getting wet in a drizzly morning in Dhaka. Every droplet appeared strange on my skin.
I missed munching on hot, crispy
phuchka with tamarind juice spread on top and the scrumptious shingara available in my university cafeteria.
At one point, I even started to miss certain things about Dhaka, but interestingly enough, I began to miss things which I actually disliked all my life. For instance, the hullabaloo of Dhaka City. Life was too tranquil and peaceful in Carlisle, a small town in Pennsylvania where we spent most of our time in the U.S. Being brought up in a metropolitan city like Dhaka, some of our hearts cried for the blare of car horn, the jingle of rickshaw bell, or the stillness-shattering cries of neighbourhood hawkers…
I missed home. I missed sauntering on the land, which is mine. No matter where one goes, how much luxury one enjoys abroad, in the hush of the night one's heart silently weeps to be in that one place called Motherland.
The Daily Star link
Date of publication: August 23, 2005
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