The Unbearable Colour of Things
At the stoplight she taps on the glass, but I stay buried in The Economist. It's so easy in a cab. She knocks harder. I look up at the beggar woman with a baby. I shrug and lift my hand to my forehead, she knows that means "forgive me." She leans over and pouts, her face so close to mine and calls "two taka" through the glass. I shake my head.
In an open air CNG she'd be patting my arm or my leg- invading my space. I'd ask the baby's name and make up some conversation about her day. With the cab she is actually closer to me, pressing her hands and face against the glass to peer into me in my air conditioned world. She's three inches from my cheek, but outside. I look straight ahead.
My pen pal laughed at our "western need for space," and though I live in one of the most densely populated cities on earth, I'm never so acutely aware of the concept of space as when I'm in a cab with a beggar at the window.
If she were one of my little friends she would drag on the window and whine "roll it down." I'd roll it down, to the chagrin of the cab driver, and my friend would stick her head into the marvelous AC of the enclosed vehicle.
"How are you?" "I'm good."
"How many flowers have you sold?" "None, will you take one?"
"No, I have nowhere to take them." "Next time?"
And then as the traffic started up, I'd shout "Be careful!" She would thrust her hand into mine for a hand shake before I took off, rolling up the window, reinstating the amazing distance created by that piece of glass.
In an open air CNG she'd be patting my arm or my leg- invading my space. I'd ask the baby's name and make up some conversation about her day. With the cab she is actually closer to me, pressing her hands and face against the glass to peer into me in my air conditioned world. She's three inches from my cheek, but outside. I look straight ahead.
My pen pal laughed at our "western need for space," and though I live in one of the most densely populated cities on earth, I'm never so acutely aware of the concept of space as when I'm in a cab with a beggar at the window.
If she were one of my little friends she would drag on the window and whine "roll it down." I'd roll it down, to the chagrin of the cab driver, and my friend would stick her head into the marvelous AC of the enclosed vehicle.
"How are you?" "I'm good."
"How many flowers have you sold?" "None, will you take one?"
"No, I have nowhere to take them." "Next time?"
And then as the traffic started up, I'd shout "Be careful!" She would thrust her hand into mine for a hand shake before I took off, rolling up the window, reinstating the amazing distance created by that piece of glass.
3 Comments:
God, your writing makes me weep. You're killin' me!
I saw the economist this week...i hardly ever see it up here, but there it was on the news stand. and I thought of you. and I thought about even buying it. but it wouldn't be the same.
I love getting to experience dhaka - even though i've made the exodus - through your blog.
Hey lady... I've been reading your pages ever since your brother came to visit me last month. Amazing stuff. I'm leaving as well, coming 'home' if there is any such thing as that. I hope all is well with you. I hope to do half what you've done in your four years one day. I'll see you when we get home.
Lisa
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