proud in the mud (or "the surprising hibiscus")

This afternoon I was surprised by the sudden appearance of this pink hibiscus in my garden.

The flower-bed-lined balcony off the kitchen in my flat in South Khulshi is a sacred space. A sanctuary, especially at sunset and sunrise. I've done my best to keep the effect of my jet lag that allows me to fall soundly asleep by 9:30 or 10pm and be up by 5:30 or 6am, sipping coffee with my BCP on the balcony. I am exceedingly blessed to have this space and I'll be damned if I take it for granted.

That's why--when the green plants of my treasured green space began to wither and die last year--I hired a gardener for a day to doctor it up a bit. Tik koron, shundor koron.  "Fix it, make it beautiful," was my simple plea, "Oh and rong lagbe, I need color!" With these simple directives the gardener disappeared out into Chittagong and returned hours later with pots of young green plants, good soil and a hose, and began operating on the parched beds. At the end of the day he assured me the colors would come. Flowers would come. Phul ashbe.

 And they have. I went to the States for a month of the monsoons and I returned to plants twice the size of when I'd left. Every day a different plant blooms with a surprise blossom. Today it was the pink hibiscus.

This seems to happen on the streets of Chittagong too -- the sudden igniting of a tree that yesterday was green and today bursts with near-supernatural shades of red, orange, yellow, or fushia. Taking photos of the blossoms becomes addictive. A couple months ago I finally bought M.A. Taher's books, Bangladesher Phul and Bangladesher Pakhi, on the flowers and birds of Bangladesh. From the States I brought back a pair of binoculars--a Christmas present from my brothers--and I plan to try a hand at "birding" in the Chittagong hill tracts. For now, I'm using the flower book to identify my balcony surprises. 

I came across this quote by Rabindranath Tagore on the first page of Bangladesher Phul. 

"Phul bole, dhono ami matir pore."

 I called my Bangla tutor, Mira, to ask her for help translating the quote. Her translation was something like, "The flower says, I am proud to be on the mud." With my little knowledge of Tagore, I'm guessing there is probably a much more poetic way to translate that, so I might ask my personal Tagore informant, John Thorpe. But Mira's translation makes me smile. Maybe we should live our lives by a mantra like that.  Honored and sure in our calling, though we're mud-covered and in the thick.
Anyway, I'll update you if I get another translation.

Speaking of mud, while I was watering my pots (which I also sprinkle every morning with my used coffee grounds), I noticed the first sprouts of my sunflowers! The lovely Rebecca Clark sent me off from Maine to Bangladesh with sunflower seeds last summer (2011), and I failed my first growing attempt. That was also the year the whole garden died and the gardener was called in. My job kind of took over my life last year, and I'm committed to not letting that happen again. So I'm watering the sunflower seeds and doing my best to battle against the impetuous seed-eating ants.
I'm also growing basil and parsely -- first basil sprout below!

I could do a whole post devoted to the fragrances and odors of my life in Chittagong, and perhaps I will. A preview to that is the photo below, of the sweetest phul in my humble garden. I couldn't find the name for this one in my book, so I'll ask the gardener to enlighten me when he comes to advise me on the worsening ant crisis. Anyway, you can smell these tiny white blossoms from yards away and they'll take you to happy places in your mind.

I discovered from my book that the flowers below are called in Bangla, kathmaloti, or tagar, or officially, tabernamontana dichotoma of the apocynaceae variety.

And on the opposite side of my apartment, I look out my living room window at kash phul, or thatch grass. In the morning, a few cows and goats feed among these soft white heads of meadow grass that wave gently in the easterly breeze.

 The scientific name for thatch grass is saccharum spontaneum, gramineae. The Latin is fantastic, isn't it? I'm sure one could find a way to live life by mottos based on floral nomenlature.

To end, I'll quote M.A. Taher's thoughts from his "Author's Words" in Bangladesher Phul:

Flowers may not be indispensable in our everyday life but we show our love for them in all our social functions. We welcome our guests and adorn the venue of our festive functions with colourful flowers. During Puja, flowers are essential. We show our love for our beloveds with a present of flowers. And the beauty of flowers satisfy our aesthetic urge. Again, the medicinal qualities of many flowers surprise us. But above everything else it is the beauty of flowers that gives us the greatest joy. Moved by the beauty of flowers poets have written poems, musicians have composed songs, artists have painted pictures. On the first of Falgun when spring arrives the sight of young women clad in yellow dress with garlands of beautiful flowers wound around the coil of their hair delights us.

ramadan sirens

I awoke at 2:45am and lost my bookmark in whatever dream I may have been dreaming. Now it's 3:45 and I've given up on forcing myself back to sleep. I'll most likely regret this decision about twelve hours from now, but my remorse will be nothing that my Aeropress and some freshly ground espresso from North End can't fix.

I am back in Chittagong after a whirlwind five weeks in seven U.S. so this pre-sunrise insomnia can easily be blamed on the eleven-hour time difference and my thoroughly confused inner time-clock.

But the other factor that jolted me out of an apparently forgettable dream was a 2:50am siren, screaming over a load speaker adjacent to my building to wake up fasting families for their pre-dawn meal.

The holy month of Ramadan is drawing to a close in a few days, though I don't think we know for sure which day Eid ul-Fitr (the feast day marking the end of Ramadan) will occur. I believe the moon plays an integral role in this determination. So this week, Saturday, or Sunday, or maybe Monday, the 29 to 30 days of daylight fasting will end, and an epic party will ensue in every household.
(Note: I have no Eid ul-Fitr plans as of yet, so in case any Chittagonians are reading this, I am a huge fan of Shemai--the sweet milky goodness of that cardamom-infused vermicilli dessert traditionally served at this holiday in Bangladesh, and I promise I'm an easy guest.)

Shemai

It's 4:00am and the second siren just called all full-bellied Khulshi-dwellers to wash their hands and prepare for about fifteen hours of fasting. Many will go back to sleep. But some of the men are now fitting their heads with their embroidered taqiyah caps and stepping out into the heavy, but somewhat cooler (85˚F) pre-dawn air to do namaz at the local mosque. An equally loud call to prayer - one of five per day - has followed the second siren.

I admire the visible existence of community during Ramadan. Everyone is waiting. Waiting together for newness. On Eid, devotees will pray before sunrise, then in following the Prophet's instructions, they will brush their teeth with a toothbrush and shower and wear new clothes and perfume. It is obligatory to show happiness on this day. There are many in this world who could use some obligatory genuine happiness. Bangladesh does this well, as I've been reminded several times in my three days back.

But there has also been a difficult side to my first week - this final week of Ramadan. The traffic and shopping are a nightmare -- probably no worse than Black Friday back home, but then again I'm in a city of over 5.5 million, and it seems everyone is shopping. But I can handle that. I can mostly avoid witnessing the American-like vice of chaotic overspending by hiding out in the peaceful safetly of my apartment. Rather, it's a virtue that I confess I have been resenting. The virtue of charity.

One of the main distinquishing features of Eid ul-Fitr is its emphasis on giving to the needy -- "as much charity as possible." As much as possible? Let's be honest -- I have eight more years to pay off college debt, so really, it's possible to pretty much empty my bank account, give away 80% of my earnings, and still eat my fill in this low cost-of-living environment. And it seems that every beggar in Chittagong has heard this little secret of my financial status. Everywhere I go, outstretched hands of skinny children, elderly adults, the blind, and crippled, and of healthy-looking men and women too, reach and grab and condemn me for my selfishness. But I can handle that. I console myself -- I'm a teacher. I donate to an NGO monthly with automatic withdrawal. Free handouts on the street perpetuate the cycle of poverty and unsustainable dependence. Blah blah blah...

What has been hardest is navigating the Eid baksheesh (gift money) for the people I know -- those who serve me daily in Bangladesh, whose faces and names I know. The guards at my office, the cleaners in my building, the cleaners that used to work in my building, the cleaner who works at my friend's building. These are people whom I know and relationships in which I delight, and so I have begun to convince myself that we are equal -- they help me practice Bangla, and I'm somehow involved in their employment -- let's not talk about money, that's uncomfortable for my Western sensibilities. But they're breaking my unwritten rule. They're asking for gifts, and it's making me uncomfortable. In my mind, there exists only one context in the world in which it's completely okay to ask for a gift or money -- and that's little Joey asking Dad for field-trip spending cash or a new gargoyle action figure.
When these non-offspring acquaintances of mine ask for monetary gifts -- or even worse -- inform me that they'll be needing a larger gift than I've given, my instinct is to say -- Well, now I don't want to give it. It's not out of the goodness of my big wonderful heart anymore. If you hadn't asked for it, I would have given it joyfully...
But would I have?
Probably not. I probably would have forgotten about the apu (elder sister) who quietly empties my garbage can each day and hand-mops my apartment block's stairway while I'm at work. She wouldn't have to drop hints about the upcoming holiday if she were working for families of the Bangladeshi religious majority rather than a building full of unaware expats. Although I am bothered by the assumption that my skin color automatically signals wealth, not a day goes by in Chittagong in which I don't feel exceedingly blessed by the comfort of my life.

So maybe today I should decide to appreciate the helpful reminders from those whom I'm sure I have forgotten as carelessly as I forgot the characters of my siren-interrupted dream. Perhaps I should be obligatorily happy in my giving and see if genuine joy arises.

The sun has risen now and this city will soon be hungry. Waiting for the iftar feast, for charitible gifts, and for newness and mandatory happiness. Eid Mubarek!