Photo: Mahmud Hossain Opu
The uniforms, the unrestrained glee – at first sight I wonder: Are they bunking classes? Like I and schoolmates used to, way back in the past. But no, I hastily chasten myself, it is afternoon and surely schooltime is over, after which they had made a beeline to the Bangla Academy for a joyride, to whoop it up: Oh girls just wanna have fun…***
August 1984. We Fulbrighters from various countries are housed in student dorms at the American University, Washington D.C. Soon we will disperse to our various universities for the start of the academic year. Summer vacation. The campus is deserted; dorms are largely empty. In the mornings we have orientation classes. Afternoons I feel desolate, disconnected. The Europeans hit the bars early; the Africans group in the TV room to watch the Olympics; others disappear to their embassies. Then one afternoon I hear a song piercing the solitude. I come out of my room and follow its Pied Piper trail to a closed door. I come home in the morning light My mother says when you gonna live your life right Oh mother dear we're not the fortunate ones And girls they wanna have funI knock. The door opens; a girl, brunette and lithe. “Yes?” “Sorry to disturb you. That song, I…” “Hang on a minute.” She steps back into the room. The volume lowers. She comes back. Green eyes coolly appraise me for a long minute. “I am one of the Fulbright people staying here. I was curious, who is it singing?” Another long pause. Then the ice breaks in her eyes and she steps back, pulling the door wide open, “Come on in.” Inside, I abruptly stop at the sound – a rich ice-cream swirl, streaming out of a glossy hi-tech system. “Yeah,” she smiles, noticing, “Marantz speakers. Hi, I am Jennifer. Everybody calls me Jen.” “Hi, I am Khadem. Who is it singing?” “Cyndi Lauper,” she says, the amused look in her eyes cruising over the speed bump of my name. Two suitcases open on one bed. Clothes scattered all over. Cartons on the floor. Stacks and stacks of albums. “I cut short my summer break,” she says conversationally. “I need to hustle back into the school groove.” I sit on the other bed. As I listen to Cyndi sing, unaccountably, my spirits lift. I feel alive again. I want to be the one to walk in the sun Oh girls they wanna have fun Oh girls just wanna have That's all they really want Some fun…***
Selfie time is over; now it’s group photos. With enviable sangfroid, they direct the much-lauded maestro of contemporary British theatre, a knighted playwright of the realm, into place. “Here,” they say to SDH, pointing to a spot. “And you,” this to Nicole, “in the middle,” and “you” – me – “on the other side.” “Come on, guys,” Nicole says to us, and we three freeze into our pose, arms around waists. “Cheese! Cheese!” These kids are pros. Expertly, they sink to a kneeling position in front of us, quickly rotating the strike one by one to take their individual shots. All of it with an infectious yelling laughing gaiety. As the phones snap and fizz, Nicole says to me, “That was brilliant.” “What, the abdication speech?” “Yes. The audience enjoyed it.” “Yes. I think so too.” “How did you know David could do that?” “It’s in his memoir.” “Oh!”Zssst, zssst…a couple of iPhones in there, and Samsungs… “You know, he does one of the Queen too.” “Really? Next time.” A break as the girls bunch together, heads bowed over phone screens, checking their shots. “Awesome,” one exclaims amid giggles. Another shrieks “Ya Allah…” Beside me, SDH addresses his wife, “I have to go. A newspaper interview…” “Okay.” At this point the bunch stirs. A couple of the girls nudge one towards us, saying “Go, go. Ask her.” The girl walks up to Nicole. “Selfie?” she asks, with an irresistible smile. “Yes, yes, of course!” As SDH departs, the girls seethe in a conspiratorial huddle, planning something. Then, braids swinging ponytails bobbing, they wheel around and fly away in pursuit of some other tempting selfie target. “Right,” I say to Nicole.“Time to go. Great meeting you.” “Bye.” As I walk away, around me in the late-bloom Dhaka afternoon the crowd ebbs and flows. It is the final day of the DLF, and tomorrow all this – the stalls, the colors – will have dissolved, leaving not a rack behind. But my spirits lift. They had been so alive, so full of life. I hope they are back, in fact, that more of them will swing by DLF in 2018 – for oh girls, don’t they wanna walk in the sun and have some fun?Khademul Islam is editor, Bengal Lights.
