In 1997, I went to the US on a Fulbright scholarship. My monthly stipend was US $990, ten dollar shy of 1K, apparently to keep us below the poverty line to avoid federal tax (whoever has heard of rich scholars anyway). Having said that, the amount was decent enough for one family to live a modest life in a campus town in the American Southwest.
Before being dispatched to our respective institutions, we had our Fulbright orientation at the University of Pennsylvania where we were given many practical tips including how to search for an apartment; how to avoid dodgy areas; how to get discount coupons; how to get cheap, used items from flea market, yard sales or thrift stores; and of course how to open a bank account. We were told that it was usually better to add additional income in order to improve chances of getting credit cards.
After a month-long practical and cultural appetizers in Philly’s best university, it was my turn to start my main course in Tucson, Arizona. I just had a few dollars given to me by the US Embassy in my pocket, and the initial check for settling in with which I was supposed to open my bank account. As prescribed during the orientation, I went to the International Students’ Office at the University of Arizona for getting suggestions about a student friendly local bank. I was referred to Saguaro Bank, named after the tall stretched-armed cacti for which Arizona is well known.
At the bank I took a coupon and waited for my turn for a service manager to attend me. A lady officer came up, and we lounged in a cozy corner where she gave me a form to fill in. This was the pre-Trump, pre-9/11 American South, when we were addressed as “Hon” (honey). I tried to impress the busy bee bank manager by mentioning my salary at Jahangirnagar University as I was at that time on paid study leave from my alma mater. I wrote $100 as my “other” income. Yes my monthly basic salary as a First Class service-holder was TK 4,700. With my house rent and medical allowances, the gross monthly salary was TK 6,000, roughly corresponding to $100. She didn’t need to know that I would only get my basics during my leave, did she?
The manager looked at the figure and thought I had got it all wrong. “Is this your weekly salary?” “No, monthly.” She had her jaw dropped. She just put her pen down, leaned back in the couch and looked at me. “How much is your house rent?”
She had surely forgotten all subtlety in her blunt pursuit of understanding how I could survive on such a paltry salary. “Well, I live with my family. So, the rent is shared.” I could not tell her the rent of our Shidheswari Apartment was TK 6,000 at that time.
“How much is a loaf of bread?” Her curiosity continued.
“10 cents. I guess.”
“How much is a gallon of milk?”
“We don’t drink milk!”
She must have thought we have milk and flakes, bread and jam as breakfast. Not her fault that she was located in a desert with little news of the outside world.
I started regretting filling in the gap. The snake like dollar sign hissed through the gap between the First World and the Third World, and I could feel its venom.
I didn’t tell her that I had left behind a five-month old daughter. The sweet caring manager would have been worried to think about me not being able to buy jar food or diapers for my daughter, let alone buying health and education insurances.***Fast forward twenty one years. I was telling my daughter about this experience. She looked at me in utter disbelief.
“6,000 TK? Isn’t that what we pay our bua now?”
“Yes.”
“How did you manage then?”
“Well we both worked – your ma and I. And I was an idealist who would not teach elsewhere to supplement my income. Six days a week, sixteen classes every week.”
She kept quiet.
“Is that why you used to give me Happy Meal once a week when we were in London.”
“Yes. And we hardly ever bought a Mac Meal for us. It was usually two 99p cheeseburgers, one shared coke for the king and the queen, and one 1.99 happy meal for the princess!”
“But we lived in a decent house...”
“Yes, the government paid for the house rent to the landlord, but your ma’s salary as a diplomat was barely enough to sustain all of us. They call London as hardship posting as it’s very expensive.”
“The government salary has gone up only in recent years. You are so attached to the country’s progress that you hardly get to realize that you have made one. We never made you feel the hardship just like our parents never let us feel it. That’s what makes our culture so beautiful. We take care of one another,” I continued.***Arshi had texted me. She was famished, and wanted me to bring her some food. I ordered for a family size large pizza as there was a “buy one get one free” promotion and lasagne to go.
I looked at the bill and realized how sometimes we take things for granted. We are so close to reality that we don’t often see it. The country has made great progress. One can argue that we don't see things as they are; we see them as we are. I have moved on, because the country has moved on. We have moved on, because the country has moved on.
Congratulations Bangladesh on your graduation to the developing country club!
Yes, we better believe it!
Shamsad Mortuza is Professor of English (on leave), University of Dhaka. Currently he is the Head of the Department of English and Humanities at ULAB.