As I sat down to write this piece late Saturday night, BBC news told me that the death toll in Nepal had already exceeded 1,500. The casualty would end up being manifold of the figure given so far. What a crying shame!
The earthquake, a little after noon Bangladesh time, recorded 7.9 in the Richter scale, causing a massive upheaval of the ground we always consider to be so steady and firm, the tectonic plates in a danse macabre. The ravaged sites of the Himalayan state make a grim sight, our hearts go out to all those affected.
The ripple effect of the massive tremor has also jolted Northern India and scores of deaths had been reported early Saturday evening. Ripples drifted to Bangladesh as well, albeit at a gentler magnitude.
When Dhaka started shaking gently, I was sitting on my comfy sofa enjoying a book. The ripples of the tremor came and it felt like a lullaby, but not to my matronly bua, who cooks for us and protects us like a mother. She felt nauseous and her instincts told her what was going on. My son, after a night of surfing the world with his computer, was sleeping late.
I live in an apartment block where most of the living places have long changed to offices. There was a noise of shuffling feet, panic-stricken, going down the fire escape stairs. My bua screamed to push both my son and myself out of our apartment and made us join the rushing office-goers. We were downstairs and on the street in a jiffy.
The tremor was different from the occasional jolts we experience in this city. Instead of seconds, it lasted minutes, gentle but unnerving for most people. It was later reported that some buildings were leaning at various angles and showing cracks as a result of the slight tremor, but nothing serious had yet been reported. Then again, buildings have a habit of leaning on a whim here without any massive tectonic plate action. But that’s a different story.
In half an hour, things were restored to normalcy. But we are a race apart from the rest of the world. People seemed very reluctant to go back to work or to their domiciles. There seemed to be a picnic mood in the streets. Tea, cigarette, and common street food sellers were making brisk business. There was, of course, the hot topic of discussion -- the city elections.
The mayoral elections (and those of commissioners) have been quite a nuisance for a person going about his/her business. Lives were disrupted to no end because of them. But most, if not all, welcomed this scenario after three months of petrol bombings.
Some people for the last few years have started calling mayors nogorpita, or “father of the city.” Talk of cockamamie derivations and/or translations. A father has many duties and has a comprehensive job of rearing children. Also, one does not elect one’s father. The mayors only get to arrange the reduction of mosquito menace, cleaning the streets and sewage drains, taking garbage away in the mornings (although the sight of garbage trucks plying in the middle of the day is quite common), and some other small jobs. They do not do it themselves, but are in charge of making sure that they are done.
The mayor of Dhaka quite often presents the “key of the city” to a powerful foreign dignitary. Now, with Dhaka North and Dhaka South, who will get the honours? A toss, maybe? Or do they wrestle for the honour like the famous Jabbar’s Boli Khela of Chittagong? A point to ponder.
The television is abuzz 24/7 with “talk artists” frothing at the mouths at defending their party favourites in these allegedly non-political elections. They are dissecting every action from a partisan view, and verbal thrusts and parries are a common sight -- talk shows have become quite an audience-puller.
Mayoral candidates and some aspiring commissioners are regularly appearing before the TV cameras. They are asked about matters of which they will have no say over. But they’re trying to answer with full gusto. I wonder if a winning mayor would start thinking that he will now run the country and decide to barge into the PMO!
How will you tackle the unemployment situation? What will you do to improve the worsening traffic situation? When will you build the culvert that our area needs post-haste? Why is the street in front of my house waterlogged? How many buses will you introduce? How will you improve the education system? What measures will you take to give women a dignified position in society? How will you cut down corruption?
I am often surprised that someone in the audience has not yet asked how many egg yolks are safe to eat per week.
One sees recurring scenes of the candidates and their agents in the campaign trail. Candidates embracing a befuddled rickshaw-puller, shaking hands with a day laborer (with an embrace to follow), bowing to an old man, sitting at a roadside tea-stall to have a cup of tea, dunking a cheap biscuit in it in solidarity with the common man. The common man gives a wry smile, well-aware that he will never see the unctuous face again.
For the last few days, the loud-speakers of the agents of aspiring mayors and commissioners have taken a heavy toll too. One is walking down the street and, suddenly, this cacophony. It is even worse when you are trying to catch 40 winks in the blistering summer afternoon. They play patriotic songs in between extolling the virtues of “watermelon” or “telescope” but in the sultry summer afternoon Runa Laila or Sabina Yasmin songs are worse, almost, than water-boarding at Guantanamo Bay.
And where in the world did the Election Commission find such symbols? Watermelon, telescope, sofa set, eagle, mug (for tea or for pouring water over your head)? What was wrong with mango, jack fruit, banana, crow, cow, goat, and some others? But then again, the EC is an enigma.
Now, a woman who smiles with her eyes but says no with her lips to a man is an enigma; a bowler who takes five wickets for nothing one day and then goes for five dozen in five overs on another is an enigma; and in Bangladesh the EC is an enigma. A few days ago, they decided to deploy the army during elections, but then, like a twist from a Hitchcock movie, they said the army would stay within the confines of the cantonment, but remain a striking force.
Riddle me this: If there is some massive election-related fighting at Laxmi Bazaar, extreme south of the city, and the election officials require the army to “strike,” then how can a contingent reach the scene fast enough from the far north of the city, considering the Dhaka traffic? A force that strikes two hours after the call is made is hardly a force, let alone a striking force. But then again, what does Joe Public know in comparison to the acumen and wisdom of the EC commissioners?
And the straw that broke the camel’s back for me on that hot and humid Saturday afternoon was the intoxicated canvasser for the “tiffin carrier” shrieking about the benevolent character of his benefactor.
I am looking forward to the morning of April 29 when I can go back to the regular cacophony of the city without any embellishments.
