Welcome to Sher-e-bangla National Cricket Stadium, Mirpur, Dhaka

Welcome to Sher-e-bangla National Cricket Stadium, Mirpur, Dhaka

The southern entry gate greets me with baloon security guards and chest haired id cards restricting your any type of bottles, your glass bottles with or without caps, your vuvuzelas, your headphones shan’t let you throttle our gladiators,

And ofcourse food. No food. You have to buy the people’s food. Which will go towards funding the people’s politicians, and the people’s subsidies to the people’s corporations, and the people’s guns, and the people’s handcuffs, and the people’s jails to keep the people safe.

But RingID can keep giving out 4s, 6s and Outs in neatly printed orange placards.
You can secret chat, apparently.

The lower seats are only half empty. No. The lower seats with barricades are only half empty.

Paramilitaries on the roof,
There are no lynch mobs, yet. It is peacetime.

Match start delay due to the corporate hospitality boxes encountering flecks of typhoon, which uproot the fresh healthy food good life umbrellas, and render the airtel boundary wraps an autonomous Mexican wave,

And to our correspondent at the sidelines:

Thanks John,
The grass remains mattressed, but
There are quite extraordinary scenes which evoke bewildered herd references as rain and heavy winds rinse and pound the capacity arena. on occasion the crowd is heard chanting ‘bangladesh’ for minute haecceities, like the electricity blinking on/off, or thunderous sighs they are cordoned off from their loved ones because nature cannot not read maps.

Some spout conspiracies to this end like “it is only raining in the stadium, elsewhere else it is dry”, “the match is going to be abandoned because india is scared of us,” and ofcourse,
the thunderous, the death defying, the unimaginably creative “you suck.”
Which does not, i suppose, stand up dissing match standards in the post-mortem highlights reel.

Titantron screens images of victory in war, on the field and of.
The cricketers practice football.

Everyone has a ticket, but not everyone has a seat.


Yet, everyone has enough seat to remind the visiting opposition that they are the other at the party, and so will purr your ex-girlfriends name to distract you while you steady yourself at the crease

The required run rate climbs down,
The greater symphony humming jingoism fades like the last loops of an echo,
The chairs once clamored for are a voluntary empty, though,they do come equipped with scapegoats underneath.

Digital alarm clock font reads CONGRATULATIONS.


The People’s Republic of Disjointed Narratives

The People’s Republic of Disjointed Narratives

3:38 AM- the mosque at mohammedpur is closed.

The steps are open, but we are not to wear our shoes.
We are all men, or are said to be men.
The security guard in cammo blows the security guard in navy,
Rahad notices this and immediately throws up laughter. We acquiesce and look. the guards, and they are not men, intentionally so, are seen retreating from their positions.

Generic bangla cinema hall music plays, preferably about want.

4:07 AM

It is my fourth mountain dew.
The intersection of the four roads are a convex of parked buses, which are usurious in the daytime. The conductors are missing.
Topu complains about the crisscrossing cement mixers, driven like ambulances,
A billboard losing it’s gum-arabic for the fresh new thing,
Overpasses becoming gardens.
It is the serenade of development.

9:46 PM on the day that hardly exists

We have finished our banquet at Chankarpool.
The bill was split. I paid both halves.
The other wanted to write patronizing prose on men with rolling pins stretching dough.
But am advised against it.
I am sensuous.
I have been reading phenomenology.

4:52 PM- it is pay day at chandpur tea estate, chunarughat, habiganj

The Cashier shuffles change as the tea workers’ fingers hang from window rails,
A raise has been in effect for 3 weeks,
85tk a week.
69tk a week.
Maybe the plantations owners are kind.

7:17 PM

Tomorrow i will see a broken-winged canary playing duet with mother,

a monkey with a noose on,

and twenty-three tea-gardens rallying for their land, and against the special economic zone proposed on the people’s land

For now. It is

an ink well of around me.