King Amanullah must be mad. Otherwise why would he be arranging a ball dance party in a bizarrely conservative country like Afghanistan. On independence day Afghanistan's first ever ball-dance is going to be held in Pagman city.
Me, and other foreigners here, weren't that much excited about it. But the mullahs sure were, and there's followers, like the water supplier, tailors, grocers, servants and such alike.
So when one day while serving the morning tea, my servant Abdur Rahman muttered under his breath , " Tradition, religion all are lost", I didn't pay attention.
I never paid much attention to what Abdur Rahman said. Besides, I am not Lord Krishna, it was not my duty to save the tradition and religion.
"Those young pussycat dolls are gonna linger and dance around with those bad-ass lads." Abdur rahman tried harder to get my attention. He succeeded. I had to ask, " Where? In the movies?"
That triggered Abdur rahman off! He gave such a juicy, erotic description of that upcoming dance party, roman orgy is child's play compared to that . He finished with, " When the clock strikes twelve, all the lights go out. I can't tell you master what happens after that, not to you."
I said, " and why is that any of your business you fish eyed monster?"
Abdur Rahman became quiet. Whenever I would address him as vetki lochon, fish eyed monster or ahlader futo ghoti, crackpot, Abdur rahman would figure out that his master is in a bad mood and would shut up. Although I used to make those remarks in my mothertongue Bangla, Abdur Rahman, a clever fellow that he is, would still understand without knowing a word of Bangla.
On that evening, I had gone out to enjoy the cool breeze of an Afghan evening. Light bulbs were twinkling here and there in the bushes and shrubs of Pagman. The pitch-black roads were clean and shiny. I was thinking to myself that 'it must be the vadro month in bangladesh. Yestreday was Janmashtomi, birthday of Lord krishna. Then it should have been my birthday yesterday according to what my mother had told me. It must be raining cats and dogs in Sylhet right now. Maa would be sitting on a woven bamboo tool on the north-facing balcony of the south side cottage. Her adopted daughter Champa would be massaging her feet and maybe asking her, " when will chotomia return?"
In all the foreign lands I had visited Monsoon is the season I had missed the most. Kabul, Kandahar, Jerusalem, Berlin, nowhere, nowhere do they have any monsoon. The relentless downpour of Vadro would make Maa all restless, Her sari, that she would change into after her daily bath, would never dry, the thick smoke from the wet firewood would make her go crazy in the kitchen. But all i would see that one minute the sky would be falling down in torrents, the next minute there was sun smiling everywhere. On the rose bush in the yard, on the Sheuli tree at the corner of the kitchen, on the leaves of the Chaur tree in the backyard, there would be glittering light spreading the joy everywhere.
But here, you would find no trace of such sweet and soft beauty.
Me, and other foreigners here, weren't that much excited about it. But the mullahs sure were, and there's followers, like the water supplier, tailors, grocers, servants and such alike.
So when one day while serving the morning tea, my servant Abdur Rahman muttered under his breath , " Tradition, religion all are lost", I didn't pay attention.
I never paid much attention to what Abdur Rahman said. Besides, I am not Lord Krishna, it was not my duty to save the tradition and religion.
"Those young pussycat dolls are gonna linger and dance around with those bad-ass lads." Abdur rahman tried harder to get my attention. He succeeded. I had to ask, " Where? In the movies?"
That triggered Abdur rahman off! He gave such a juicy, erotic description of that upcoming dance party, roman orgy is child's play compared to that . He finished with, " When the clock strikes twelve, all the lights go out. I can't tell you master what happens after that, not to you."
I said, " and why is that any of your business you fish eyed monster?"
Abdur Rahman became quiet. Whenever I would address him as vetki lochon, fish eyed monster or ahlader futo ghoti, crackpot, Abdur rahman would figure out that his master is in a bad mood and would shut up. Although I used to make those remarks in my mothertongue Bangla, Abdur Rahman, a clever fellow that he is, would still understand without knowing a word of Bangla.
On that evening, I had gone out to enjoy the cool breeze of an Afghan evening. Light bulbs were twinkling here and there in the bushes and shrubs of Pagman. The pitch-black roads were clean and shiny. I was thinking to myself that 'it must be the vadro month in bangladesh. Yestreday was Janmashtomi, birthday of Lord krishna. Then it should have been my birthday yesterday according to what my mother had told me. It must be raining cats and dogs in Sylhet right now. Maa would be sitting on a woven bamboo tool on the north-facing balcony of the south side cottage. Her adopted daughter Champa would be massaging her feet and maybe asking her, " when will chotomia return?"
In all the foreign lands I had visited Monsoon is the season I had missed the most. Kabul, Kandahar, Jerusalem, Berlin, nowhere, nowhere do they have any monsoon. The relentless downpour of Vadro would make Maa all restless, Her sari, that she would change into after her daily bath, would never dry, the thick smoke from the wet firewood would make her go crazy in the kitchen. But all i would see that one minute the sky would be falling down in torrents, the next minute there was sun smiling everywhere. On the rose bush in the yard, on the Sheuli tree at the corner of the kitchen, on the leaves of the Chaur tree in the backyard, there would be glittering light spreading the joy everywhere.
But here, you would find no trace of such sweet and soft beauty.
