It appears that Valentine’s Day has become more localised with this term: “Bhalobasha Dibosh.” Must say, our version sounds a little more romantic. Of course, this “bhalobasha” (or love) does not have to be romantic love, it can be for relatives, for the nation, and for friends. Someone told me, on this day, a “Love Dhaka” congregation has been organised where rallies carrying banners with slogans professing affection for the city will be brought out, among many other things.
Dhaka is indeed our city and we love it even though the current day relation is somewhat bittersweet: During the work days, caught in traffic, I hardly see a smiling face.
Come to think of it, Dhaka is perhaps at its most pleasant during the Eid holidays when, for about two weeks, the roads are quiet, traffic smooth, and the noise well below blood pressure-raising levels. Dhaka’s problem is not with traffic alone, we hardly see the sky; the city suffers from claustrophobic congestion with too many people and high rises.
Do I love this Dhaka? Let’s answer it this way: Our love for the city blossomed when Dhaka was a magical place to live and grow up in, in the 70s and 80s. Since those images are still vivid, we just can’t hate it.
“Ar thakum na ai shohore” (will not stay a minute in this blasted city) I have heard from many exasperated people but they soon forget it once they manage to take a rickshaw ride within the Dhaka University campus on a Friday afternoon or after 10 at night, especially during the monsoon.
Right, let’s get into the Valentine mode: There is a palpable sense of “bhalobasha” everywhere on that day.
With so much happening, a Valentine Day role I played about 27 years ago came to mind. One of my friends, a true romantic, had developed a relationship with a girl over the phone. Back then, many such relations happened via the TNT line. Conversations took place usually at night, using a spare telephone receiver connected surreptitiously to the main household telephone connection.
So for Valentine’s Day, my friend decided to send the girl some gifts and I was to be the bearer cum messenger.
Plans started well ahead of February 14. One could not walk into a store and ask for romantic gifts because there were none.
My pal made a card using art paper on which one of his senior cousins painted a rather surreal image: A blood red bird lost in thought with a centipede not too far away.
“What do you think of the painting,” he asked me, obviously expecting a gushing response.
Umm, well, it was very metaphysical! The gifts had to be bought from special places, some collected. From my end came a small tissue box from Harrods.
Hand tissues were something of a novelty; scented ones with refreshing cologne almost non-existent in Dhaka. We began looking for chocolates but failed to get something “exotic” from the Ruma and Popy stores -- the top-end departmental shops of the time. It was frustrating. My friend was adamant in getting large Cadbury bars. Bonalim and Picnic would be too banal. Things became so bad, he started dreaming of Cadbury in his sleep.
Luckily, we were saved because my friend discovered that in our area lived a Biman Bangladesh steward.
We didn’t know him but went to his place anyway. Everything’s fair in love and war, my buddy reasoned. The man was a bit puzzled but we pleaded: Something out of the ordinary is a must.In the end, he got us a box of assorted chocolates on the condition that the moment the local video store had a clean copy of Hero Hiralal (a Nasiruddin Shah movie), we would get it from him.
My friend paid with the monthly tuition fees kept for his coaching for the chocolates. A round cardboard box was ordered from the shops selling bridal accoutrements, and after all the items were put inside, we sprayed some Brut and Charlie cologne inside. The moment she opens the box, there must be an explosion of perfume, my pal said. Who would disagree with him!
On February 14, I was on my way in a baby taxi to Mirpur. Still don’t know why, but I wore a shirt which was short. I mean a little too short. This style would finally come after 20 years but back then it seemed really odd. Waiting outside the girl’s house carrying the gift wearing a shirt, which was small, led many to give me a queer look. Finally, as the Maghrib azaan sounded and the girl’s father walked out to the mosque for prayers, I was given a signal.
Hurriedly, I entered the gate and handed the box and walked out. The girl didn’t say anything but looked a little surprised.
I later found that my shirt was the dominant topic for the phone conversation that night. I guess my buddy tried his best to rationalise my choice of clothes. I found much later that he told the girl: “Oh, he is a bit nuts; spent some time in a sanitarium as a child.”
“Tui amar prestige puncture korsos,” (you have dented my prestige), he came to me the next day, half angry, half amused.
“Why did you wear that short shirt?”
This is from Pearson’s, I replied, to which he said: “Gulli maari tor Pearson’s …”
Really, I still wonder, why did I wear it!
Well, look at it this way, if I had been proper, this piece would not be written; to be frank, we were all romantic fools then; perhaps a little stupid but we had some memorable days in a Dhaka which is now a dream.
Valentine’s Day wishes/bhalobasha to all the readers who have had the patience (or not) to read my column.
