Colourful and grey

By

bit of a love letter, i assume


Dhaka is all she has seen for the most part of her life.

The city that bustles in colors, the city that bustles in grey. The hubbub of traffic choked roads, beggar clad concretes who begged and begged until their voice parched itself, the dearth of foliage which she gradually saw crossfading into the ruthlessness of time, the shrieks and screams of hawkers, the upheaving voices of the passersby haggling for the price, wrestling with the cacophony of horns, all of it.

She walked through the paved and unpaved roads, stranded for the worse, her feet aching from the deformity, the coarseness of it all. She looked around and saw tall buildings, people typing away in their computer, footpaths clad with temporary shops of bangles to fuchkas, a local street food, to pickles to even cutleries, low end jewelries, makeover salons, both low- and high-end. The shops were spread haphazardly, one without a roof, one with a makeshift roof, being a victim of the swinging weather. She saw the shops and their keepers drenched in rain in monsoon, she felt the commodities hot against the palm of her skin in summer. She faced being on the front end of transport threatening to nearly run her over, be it a bus, a car, or a small sized vehicle named ‘tempu’ holding eight to ten people. She lived a life that’s fast paced, briskly moving from one day to the next.

She has seen the old, handicapped and the weakened splay their hands in front of her, voicing in the nimble tone for some money to avail the luxury of food on their stomachs, especially mothers for their children. The elders voiced about the mercy of Almighty to be bestowed upon her if she could help them in any way. Which she tried to do, her level best. She would voice a sorry in a sheepish tone upon finding her wallet empty or avoid their pleas with a profound guilt in her heart.

She had seen the one of the seven wonders of the world, the Great Wall of China, she had seen the most opulent visual of Singapore, and the most glistering one of Malaysia, but nothing tugged her heart like the swaying of the ‘Kash’ flower on autumn placed daintily in Aftab Nagar and Diya Bari, the beauteous outlook of flower blooming in its true hue and fragrance in spring along the remaining foliage in this grey city, the torrential downpour in monsoon which allowed her to encase herself in warmth with a book in hand, and even the harsh caress of the winter wind which chilled her skin.

Dhaka is more than just a city to her where she resides in; it’s her home. It’s where she spent most of her jovial, exciting, cold, temperate, auburn years of her life. With its imperfections, she cherishes the complexity if offers and its simple heart wrenching stories all the same.

 

I'm 25 and awkward. Dreaming big so if it breaks, the pieces are in thousands.

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