Extending square footage - Dhaka has high incidence of pedestrian injury and the government decided to put in pedestrian overpasses, or subways, almost every other block in the city center. (The hooded covers for the subways reminded me of the sections of a caterpillar, and I mistakenly thought them metro entrances - metro would be a great idea in theory, but the flood plain character of Dhaka would make it an enormous financial burden.)  Quite a lot of people actually use the overpasses as intended, but in a place where space is at a premium the added square footage is quickly taken advantage of.  We saw vendors on every overpass, two sleeping people (Felix felt it dishonoring to take the one sleeper from a more conventional angle) and some laundry out to dry.

As we drove out of the city to see their most famous Independence Memorial we crawled through areas still under water from the monsoon, or perhaps under water all year, and some of the farmers had built a lattice on stilts so that their gourds, pumpkins, and cucumbers could grow several yards further over the water and in the sunshine.  I'm not sure what happens as the crops ripen, but I was assured that the snakes in the water were not the poisonous kind.

Jams- Traffic is intense in Dhaka from about 8a.m.-9p.m.  It is immediately noticeable that there is less hooting of horns in Dhaka than in Delhi, but it is also immediately noticeable that vehicles in Dhaka are significantly more dented than in Delhi.

Pedalled rickshaws are lined up along the streets.  The rickshaws are surprisingly brightly ornamented which belies the rather grim existence they afford the drivers.  Most rickshaws belong to business men with several, if not tens or hundreds of rickshaws, and they are rented out to drivers for 8 hour sessions. Virtually all bike rickshaws are off the streets at midnight. It was frightening to think of rickshaws out at night without any lights.

There were two kinds of motorized rickshaw: one imported from India with smaller motorbike wheels and a slightly bigger body, or the Bangla made one with larger bike wheels and slightly smaller body. Most of these motorized rickshaws were caged (both driver and passenger) against theft from passersby.

There were a lot of buses and they are used hard: dents and scrapes all round, but even the very top seats (I wonder if they are much cheaper) are padded!

At 10:30 at night we saw trucks unloading on the main road into the city and workers with large baskets  (3-4ft across) carrying goods off.  Some of the workers had finished for the day, or perhaps they were just taking a nap before the next delivery, as they were now using the basket as a bed on the pavement.  At 8 in the morning we saw the basket topped men transporting more goods and the men dragging carts piled high with another man on top to anchor the load got through the traffic often more quickly than anything with four wheels.  In one spot there were six man staggering under a huge bale on their heads and each held a sickle poked into the bale to maintain balance as they weaved their way through the standing traffic.

We spent about an hour driving a mile along the riverfront road and I was reminded of Colonial America when it was faster and simpler to transport by river than across country.  Dhaka seemed like a distribution disaster.

Beautiful fruit and vegetables -  Dhaka is a dense city, full of people and innumerable rickshaws of both bicycle and motorized type, dented buses, cars, and the usual grimy street dirt so the piles of wonderful fruit and vegetables are a delight to the eye.  Sellers with the carved amra on sticks walked between the cars trying to sell them during rush hour and earlier in the day one vendor permitted me to photograph him carving his wares.  The amra is tangy like lemon, very high in vitamin C, and the Bangla like to eat them with a sprinkling of salt and chili pepper (our wonderful housekeeping-wallah from Calcutta told me this). 

There were also amla for sale.  They are Indian gooseberries and look like over sized European gooseberries.  Perhaps it is really that the Indian gooseberry was schlepped off to Europe where it didn't thrive so well and is thus smaller? :)

The other delightful instant food (not that we ate any of it) were the beautifully almost completely peeled cucumbers cut down to the stem in 8 parts so that it opened rather like a  long flower that the vendors sprinkled a bit of oil and lime juice on.

Dhaka, on foot

National Museum -  It was a little scary stepping out of the hotel grounds and heading to the National Museum, although it was only three blocks away.  There was a lot of curiosity and not all of it seemed friendly.  It took me a while to pluck up my courage and actually take out the camera. 


To decrease fatalities the city has erected street overpasses almost every block.  For a really crowded city this produces new surface area and we found people sleeping on the stairs and on the overpass as well as setting up stalls along the overpass and drying their laundry on the railing.

The museum was set in well tended garden with lots of flowering shrubs and one particular tree with very large painted stones underneath it. I couldn't determine whether this was some form of worship or modern art.  The contents of the museum were a fascinating mix of elementary school textbook and fabulous workmanship and art.  They had a large collection of Zainul Abedin's work which was stunning.  His sketches of the 1945 famine victims are very moving.  I wanted to buy postcards (no photography was allowed) and yet despite advertising and sample cards, there were only about 10 cards available (not the ones I wanted). 

The first room of the museum (and yes, there is a very definite order one is supposed to view exhibits in and I was barred from entering rooms out of order!) I entered had a large map of Bangladesh in it.The map was about 24' x 30' and raised three feet off the floor.  There were little red lights indicating towns all over the map and a museum-wallah sat behind the bank of 60-odd buttons ready to show us where what was with the same degree of professionalism and importance that someone at Mission Control might have.

I am guessing that the flipflop has its origins in Asia.  I saw an amazingly painful looking 19th century variation on the theme carved out of ivory.  It seemed rather a waste of skilled workmanship that there were curvaceous young woman sculpted into the soles of these shoes.  These were evidently never meant to be exported to Japan.

Another eye catching exhibit was of ektera.  One stringed quasi-violins. The base was a hollow dried gourd and the neck a split piece of bamboo that was joined to the outside of the gourd. Thanks to Felix we found out what it sounds like http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ai6yj5tMTo and I think it could make a great 'beat' for Felix's next composition.

I spotted a 15th century, four foot high copper war drum that could probably have frightened people several villages away and the embroidery samples were a delight.

By far the most well presented and well maintained room was that of dark, highly polished carved wooden furniture.  There were elaborate husking pedals in the forms of 10 foot crocodiles, and raised beds with with ornate legs and canopy supports. My favourite had three foot high legs with a large animal foot at the base with an elephant on that and a lion on top of the elephant and a bird on top of the lion and finally the bed base on top of the bird, while the canopy would have been supported by the  four lovely corner angels with wings opening outwards who were again another four feet high.

ang

The Dhaka Sheraton - The hotel kindly had a sticker on the hotel wall pointing out the direction of Mecca.  They also had on hand at the concierge copies of most of the known holy books of the world.  One bathroom wall was devoid of any decoration or appliance except a rather primitive bottle opener about 3 feet from the ground and, in somewhat odd contrast, the minibar was empty unless we solicited its filling. Even though it was tempting to test the utility of the bottle opener, we resisted.

The hotel had decent gym facilities - one whole facility for men and another for women.  The hotel also boldly advertised a swimming pool. I would not have dared use it, except for Felix's strong presence with me.  The hotel provided no dressing gown but expected me to walk from the gym down a passage (also used by security staff and dining-kitchen people ferrying food) and then unwrap myself in full view of a bar and multiple groups of business men seated around the very basic pool.  As discreetly as possible I slunk into the pool and swam very close to my son.  I don't think they really wanted the pool used. It just added to their prestige.

On our way from the airport to the hotel we noticed a large sign advertising Sweetmeats.  Bert found this very odd (confusing sweetmeats with sweetbreads) and when I protested that it was merely another name for a bakery a serious debate started which ended in a 300 taka bet.  (Not too large a risk with about 70 taka = $1).  Wanting to cash in on my bet asap, I asked a young hotel minion in the hotel lobby what the word 'sweetmeat' meant.  What could I buy in that shop?  He thought very hard and then said he'd get back to me.  When I saw him next he had several addresses for me where I could buy sweetmeats!  I had not managed to convey my query clearly.  The issue was resolved, in my favor, naturally, at dinner the following evening.  In fact we should have guessed because there is an area in New Delhi called the Bengali market that is just FULL of shops selling sweetmeats (even if they don't call them that in New Delhi).  There seem to be many varieties of ladoo - small deep fried donut like sweet bread dipped into a delicious sugar syrup - with slightly different shapes and colours, of course, with different names.  My  earnest young hotel friend asked me each time he saw me whether I had found the shop yet and although I hadn't, I could at least honestly tell him that I had tried some of the sweetmeats and found them scrumptious.

Persistent rickshaw drivers - This is starting to be very uncomfortable.   A third rickshaw driver picked us up on Saturday and told us our history! Bert and I had established that we would start with a quick visit to an enormous bazaar at the Indira Gandhi Cultural Center (close to India Gate, north of us) where I wanted to show him something in an exhibit on puppets and storytelling and from there go on to walk around Hauz Khaz which has the remains of Siri City (the second city of Delhi built in 14th century). 

Just a block south of the Cultural Center is the National Museum of History and there was a large chariot I wanted to show Bert.  We got out of our rickshaw here and Bert was suitably impressed with the chariot.  Coming out of the gates a pushy rickshaw driver asked where we wanted to go.  We pointed north to the next block and said we were walking.  He said "Cultural Center one and a half kilometers.  I take you both 10 rupees and then you like to see Indian Crafts, very fine things.  This Cultural Center, there is nothing to buy there.  You want to see fine Indian crafts, I take you."  I had been to the bazaar at the Cultural Center only days before.  It was a three minute walk and about 5 acres of stalls full of things to buy.  Bert bravely told this chap that we had plans to go to Haus Khaz, and we were walking the less than a block, thank you.  The persistent chap followed us up the road.    "No problem, you go here, I wait.  I take you to good place, very close, good price, you know festival time, and then I take you to Haus Khaz."  I tried to protest, but somehow we gave in.

Bert and I had a good time at the bazaar, where there was nothing to buy, and even got ourselves interviewed by some enthusiastic media students.  The rickshaw chappy, whose name I am delighted to have forgotten, was, of course, waiting for us. 'O, you find something to buy?'  Shameless chap!  He took off confidently, telling us he knew all about us, "You know Ranjeet Singh.  Sikh man?  He tell me.  You live Aman Hotel.  Most expensive hotel in Delhi.  You buy carpet.  How many carpet you buy?  What kind of carpet you buy?  You also go with Mr. Sharama (the other enterprising chap who picked Elaine and myself up)."  I am nudging Bert through  this deluge of questions: "Be vague in your answers, please." :)   20 minute drive later we arrived at another of those hard sell places full of fantastic things that we didn't want to buy.  Our driver was understandably saddened that we didn't pick up two silk carpets.

"Well thank you for showing us that, now could we push on to Haus Khaz."  "I take you to metro.  Very close.  Very easy."   The nerve of the fellow!  Needless to say he didn't get much of a fare from us for using up our time and dumping us at the metro.  However, the metro was great.  It got us down to Haus Khaz a lot faster and with less pollution than the tuktuk could have, but I am not sure it would be such fun without my strong defender and the reduced weekend traffic.

I am going to have to talk to Mr. Singh.  We clearly overpaid substantially for that carpet and his joy on his commission must have caused him to be too loquacious.

I wonder if the hotel is now being staked out and our descriptions circulated.

Ghazals - William Dalrymple has written a wonderful book about Delhi, City of Djinns, which led me to a another book, a novel by Ahmed Ali, Twilight in Delhi.  Dalrymple's book has several passages describing Urdu scholars' passion for Urdu and Ahmed Ali's novel (a depressing but accurate picture of 1940 Delhi) shows how widespread knowledge of, and delight in, Urdu poets was.

My sources suggest that Urdu arrived in Delhi with the Muslim sultanate in the late twelfth century and that Urdu although its own beast now, bears resemblance to Persian, Turkish and Arabic.  India's 2002 census states that 51,536,111  :) people speak Urdu. 

While Bert was away, and because I am bent on having to pay for more luggage on the way home in January, I went off in search of some Urdu poetry with English translation.  There are plenty of volumes to choose from.


The ghazal is a closed form of poetry with quite strict guide lines.  It is the kind of intricate puzzle I would have set my poetry students to master: short (usually not more than 12 lines); opens with a rhyming couplet with this rhyme repeated at the end of the second line of every verse, AA, BA, CA, DD; the second to last word in the opening line should rhyme with its counterpart in the second line and then every counterpart in each second line of verse; the last couplet often includes the poet's name in some form; the couplets in a ghazal may not hang together logically; the last couplet can be more personal.  Ghazal is an Arabic word = talking to women, and ghazaal is an Arabic word= the painful wail of a wounded deer.*

Given how formal the structure is it comes as a bit of surprise that the ghazal's main subject matter is pining away for the poet's mistress.  It comes as even more of a surprise that these verses also doubled as verses of devotion to God.  Although mistresses seemed the rule rather than the exception, "love outside marriage was deemed immoral"* so these verses are often very ambiguous in their language, addressing lover as God, or God as lover, and carrying a tone of unrequited love and persecution.  Put this in the context of a time of rigorous observance of Muslim worship -certainly a far cry from 'Jesus, Lover of my soul'!

I shan't be adding ghazals to any future high school poetry class. :)

Mir Taqi Mir (1723-1810)

Every bright and beauteous thing derives from His grace,
It's but His spark divine that sets the sun ablaze.

As my agitated heart erupted unrestrained,
The din of doom was let loose with every wail I raised.

When I realized myself, I realized my God,
Far away from myself, I know, I'd strayed.

Dull was your inward flame, or, O, Moses wise,
A thousand Sinais lay ambushed in the lightning blaze.

Without your glowing presence, love, at the nightly meet,
Orphaned stood the moth, the candle desolate.

What matters, O heavens, if I'm razed to dust,
How else my coquettish love to taught to mend her ways?

What if the rich possessed velvets and brocades,
Did he not spend his night, the unprovided, naked rake?

This one seems a bit more hopeful in recognizing an inconsistency:

Mirza Ghalib (1788-1855)
Thousands of desires, each a deadly force,
I have had surfeit of them, still I yearn for more.

Often have we heard of Adam's inglorious exile
but more ignominious was my exit from your door.

The truth about your stature tall will stand exposed, O despot!
If your curls, coil on coil, straighten out their folds.

Let him come, he who wants a letter to my friend inscribed,
with a pen behind my ear, every morn I hawk and stroll.

Those I thought would sympathize with my tale of woes,
Proved to be the sufferers of even harsher blows.

No difference in life and death when we are in love,
The same infidel sustains our life, who makes our life a load.

The preacher and the tavern door, Ghalib, lie poles apart,
Yet yesterday, as I was coming, I saw him slip indoors.

 * Glimpses of Urdu Poetry by K.C. Kanda