It was 1:05pm on a glacial Thursday afternoon when my phone rang. It was an acquaintance who worked in an office in Banani.
He shouted frantically into the phone: “The building next to me has caught fire! I am afraid it might spread.”
It was little more than a month since I witnessed the flames engulf buildings in Chawkbazar, snuffing out 71 lives in a matter of hours.
I rode my motorcycle to Banani in just 15 minutes.
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It was easy to see that something quite significant had happened. Hundreds of people were mulling around, eager to savour the sight of a disaster unfolding. They thronged the pavements and the streets, crowding balconies and roofs nearby.
The whirring noise of a helicopter cut through the siren of emergency vehicles, and a jet of water was sprayed over the billowing flames.
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The fire service had set up a pump on the roof of Hotel Sarina, hoping to siphon water from the rooftop pool and shoot it across the street towards FR Tower.
Perhaps the fire could have been put out much sooner, if there were not so many people flocking the streets. Perhaps the number of deaths would have been much lower, if they bothered to put up firefighting facilities.
It is not my first fire, and I am afraid it will not be my last.