That feeling when khuni hasina jobab de warps off the kalabhavan roof staring bcl down within a pound of meat treble picking up widows dissolving into a hung jury ershad brain drains knocking down the last stiff ones before. before. and there are. i must say. dominions built on moribund deltas and the nuclear family and the idea of the orient. his alma matter folds up the excess fabric of a tenure signing off detroit jute mills. and i cannot believe they still have not privatized the railways. that this survey does not count the kid with the tempu gear shift, sucking on a bottle a cap as part of the baby boom and all your guardians are hooked up, blood pressure cuff saggy, veins popped, bruised, ready. table fan charring 22 khusputtalikas. into men. into men. into men. into solitary. by complexion. by desire to be seen.
There are no kids at shibbari more anymore.
where they stare down sabres of lightning 7 years down to 3 and 5 (as if) always swerving right into missing bodies unsubstantiated salwar kameez listed in the morgue catalog carnations stuffed into barrels fooled into a state of awe eyeballs knocked off stage floating into space richochetting off and into red fort walls counting the ways i miss you with cabinet meetings in which he acts aloof all night and has it struck from the record of ettiquette that prevails in the fog that passes as the streets that must return home those accepted demands to that future where you hit me and i smile.
Until they are.
No, you say. Writing is necessarily catharsis. It does not flirt with the commissar as he grins at his secretary.
But you will not withdraw in your asphyxia.
Because it is also necessarily agitation. So, that you may inhale and resign that black tar to the state’s depository of cliches.
like shawls draped
An inflection point for the generals
Who have for decades fought co-option of the 969
By liberal arts journals,
Your father’s colonial struggle
Has been amended to serve
In the trenches
Infested with secession,
Naf Nodi culls
Sandbags gunned Type-81
Jihad: a transaction,
The watering hole is
Contoured as a red light district
With the UNHCR’s
Revolving door policy of look don’t touch
For locals after a day of swindling Reagan Democrats
Longest stretch of tombs on earth,
A buffet of deck chairs
And coconuts for tourists
To etiolate their quota of
Third world unforeseens
Photograph: Christophe Archambault/AFP
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.
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.
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.
Disassembling your vertebra,
Into sepulchers hooking anchors to the bed of your mismated imagines, through mute button, where you are struck by baby i am tired, or a morsel of eggs, roti, and a before you sip, you realize some metaphor about the ocean throwing up eroticisms only infrequently, and these infrequencies are the ones you tune in for, along the tracks to the west of the burial estate, where you hope you die cradling yours, and yours what the state-schools taught you a factory-line would look like, and the same party line you toe in your jackfruit for teacher contribution to throw back at you at the engineering geometry set, yours, contribution to society, yours, yours, girl as future as past-wife tugging your arm for pocket money, as you bite your teeth and become your father thinking as your son, as a caricature of change as caring-center, as heart-beat in February’s fields, whatever that means–
A mediation on the Boyfriend.
Robi nilkhet abasik elaka,
Sedan’s Front bumper in tundra,
the ambulance limps off of terminal reds counting cyclical to 199 and back to peanuts shelling, thudding, at one with a tarmac in seige.
Your chocolate, chewing gum eyes belie your hatred of rom-coms, and the hawker pelts you a dozen, but not before your bargain reaffirms the story of men. And chivalry places herself beside you, and she is heard dislocating her execution from narrative, because the narrative is the groom as the magistrate takes off his shoes, and the synthesis of the abortion clinic sans reciept, brewing ballast, no cargo of slut or 8 weeks, or 9 weeks, or 9 months, which as sam bee pointed is a caesarian in parlance, and the narrative of ultra freedom presented with billboards dripping in supervision of basting syringes, garlanded by sanitary napkins;
Kintu, Amar chai sheratai, tai amar jonno only the means of machinery on the farmland; the antiseptic vikrampur mistir bhander can rollick in his meadows, with his ironed, dress, and the tint-sangbadics chained to a uturn with islamophobia walkie talkies, will cobble manuscripts
For minivans giving out am_rosh thumping to rokto lal, rokto lal, rokto lal
Sumaiya-r proti shagor
proud sponsor of
Onar ta birochito amar ta to shorochito.
Sama-on bollo apnar kobita chara ar kono kobita porina. Shomoy nai.
Ripon ideal college er hoye keno dhaka colleger shamne gelo. Ey shahosh niye labaid er intern-daktar ra onek gayan dilen. Oni keno eden college gelen na, jeta ekti dharmik purush er kache theke asha kora jay. Shudu mehmaner jonno noy. Cashew nut biscit birat mullo-hrash-er jonno. Jonno
Dokhin city corporation moyla wala ke 3 tar shomoy ashte boleche. Uni eshechen 10 tay, ekti shushil chakor-er kach theke ja asha kora jay, to shey ek dhok dharalo pani pan kore, bharot-er etihash shomporko boi khujte gelen.
Onar age, boro chul chilo. Uni bolen kintu boro chul rakhle biye hoy na. Meye ra pochondo kore na. To onar ekhon choto chul. Uni amader chul katte nished korlen.
To Dhaka, je onek kotha bolle.
In descending order, no chronology.
Tsc-ir bathroom er pechon, ek khachay cricket,
Rickshaw wallar theng-e lathi,
Marjan-er hate mic, mic e shunay dilder-er paris kabbo,
Boi melar majhe,
A police-watch-lamp clinging to a visibly irritated orchid of comms equipment. Like in the hills, where the bushes were the hotbed of checkpoints curried in chalk: SHIBIR, with pretense.
the SATV reporter who inquired the wisdom of using anti-bangla on 20th February.
First as language, then as cane
Proti shong-jogey nirapotta,
Like in aid packages,
Slingshot off aircraft carriers,
swimming with a coast guard escort,
Stamped with the longshoreman’s exemption from import duty,
And this is all assuming there is a humanitarian corridor, and the third world nation in question has not crucified the United nations In last night’s state of the union, with hashtag “foreign interests,” or worse, hashtag “foreign vested interests”
The Stall is a cowlick
But those are pipe dreams. Power doles dissertations, with one hand tied behind it’s means of production, on the importance of hard work and that there is no such thing as entitlement–in this world, it will add.
This dissertation is not written, rather it is reproduced in the iotas where rats in television store cheese, or the breakup one can lighthouse from weeks ahead; so you will see it in the nuclear family strong-arming it’s daughter on the societal pitfalls of marrying outside the caste, and happens regardless of the amount of years in bride school; this will usually be accompanied by the claimed foreboding coercions that are gossips, and so like the prime meridian “amar mey hoyle ekta thappor ditam” or “mere feltam,” and finally consolation “thak bhabi,” and expunction, where she will be known and thought to exist, but through constant replication of the discourse of the fallen Madonna distilled through the male gaze will be extinct or at the very least archived.
Sayeed Kokhon protigha korechen je uni onar babar nam niben na.
Because, the inheritance tax is a 100%
Artwork by Rahad Mahmud
Scully and Mulder were back this week,
And so was back nostalgia as SuperBowl halftime shows, and halftime puppys, and halftime anti-apartheid insurgents as latex, and i was still torn, at the time of writing, whether it was all guerrilla marketing for an un-red-lined middle class, or guerrilla marketing for the Nets’ repatriation movement in Brooklyn, so Jay-Z, the pretend Prokhorov, could finally have a chance of not sliding checks past the internally displaced, or a revival of the celebrity as activist, or the celebrity as revolution. But then, i thought, whether it mattered if the hand that feeds you, also removes your lungs, block by studio, timbre by timbre, sonorous LP by sonorous LP. Infirmaries built atop billboards. Soup kitchens built atop Prison abolition. Isn’t that what the Black Panthers were about?
I never enjoyed how scully was presented as the party-popper corporeal, as if not delving into conspiracies about FEMA death camps was anti-humanist. and then what? And as if Mozambique was liberated by the age of reason, and not the carnation. And someone at the av club pointed out that “my struggle” should have been named “our struggle” or at the least “my struggle against your struggle, against it.” But, we are supposed to identify with mulder, however crazy his theories, were, however, ultimately, unfalsifiable and full of hope, for a world that would fashion hope in nylon strings, and mail it back to you, as hallmark card, sweated in polyester.
Depression from immanence, from consistency,
From car crash,
From brick window,
From clubbing to the temple,
From expulsion from matriculation,
Or Ralph’s death,
Or mother’s anniversary.
That was the kind, Scully was talking about.
So, we had to entertain Mulder; against pulling the curtains on a world which had no monsters-of-the-week. Because, and she never said this, the monsters were never under the bed; they were in mother’s room, they were, the whistle underneath the librarians desk, the creases in pant-suits, free jazz in a faraday cage, parliamentarians bailing-out the parliament from self-aggrandized bonfires, frats eulogizing cult of personalities with assemblages of “disco sucks,” kids parkouring up pick-ups for documentarian lens-flares. Blinding watchdog binoculars, locked in on fluoride cabals, third world agency infiltrations.
Indiscriminate. even you. Mr. You follow the drugs, you get drug-addicts and drug-dealers, you follow the money, you follow the money.
and. so. i wrote this in
Mitzvah- regarding eight documents from the red corridor
“land to tiller, hope to pilfer,
Your struggle for busts,” Green Hunt
Cantos the Party’s Subpoena into portable iterations for masses, so that they, and we, only in relation to they, might in their amusement arks, built on bubble fiat;
international simulacra spanning slutty as air hostess, traversing in hebetude, the penchants of prostitutes to promiscuity.
Blazoned by our ideologues, they shall surrender, without demonstration, their vaginas, their penises, their penises, their vaginas, their neutered xx. xy. XXYY.XYY.XXX.48, XXXX.49, XXXXX. their audited chromosomes for lysenko, as he wheels their cots into nourishing stoves, pouring them, and this. to mention that we are also in the tub with them, our, their soggy batter molded into insurrectionary great leaps forward
Of charu’s politburo posing under green screen intravenous with the tiger reserve, where she had already succumbed to the prey-of-the-day, to the
bauxite, the ore in the collapsing mines breaking into choirs crooning hey ya, hand me some manganese, some nickel, some Bhattacharjee mouthfucking tribal uncivies; Nandigram intoning Hey Jude to the cover of Ma Mati Manush, and the Neo-Jiangxi Soviet crumbled under in it’s own beat.
P.S. Annie Lebovitz was no were to be seen. and So. the electorate complained about not being able to own land in Srinagar.
the Renault picket groove in iambic pentameter. not really. why would i?
the worker’s were agitating in ways which affronted public decency.
and so our correspondent Leyla Zana filed these couplets channeling interviewees under Article 301 of the penal code:
our pensions bleed for the turkish soil
these unpatriots, in hell, may they boil
indeed, stainless hard work will make joy
for country, for capital won’t remain coy
Standard & Poor’s:
Cotillard, won’t you, oh won’t you, break my picket groove?
watching your efficiency in training, I can only say that you’re truly a force built with the spirit of the War of Liberation,
And this will speak to the love in our hearts, the love, which jostles plate tectonics as if she were fingering herself, her population, her son, her head of IT, her sister, the Berliner, her Russel, her Russel, her Russel, who if his grey matter were not corrosion to major javelins, were he not subterranean indemnities, were he not her mother’s son, were she not a call girl for festoons, like her husband, my father, for the men without tongues to parrot shuvo. shuvo. shuvo. dins, for my Fazila-tunnesa, mother who was so slow to fellatiate father’s lithosphere, so he could not hand the ringer to Jamil, his Shafat Jamil, his Shafiullah, his Osmani, his unamed General who was aware but was not aware, who was elegied but was not elegied, was efegied, but not efigied, and my father’s sons, Huda, and Noor, and Dalim, and Farooq, and Rashid who were in the lavatory, on the roof, the patio, the lake, upstairs to the answering machine, where my father hung up and তাকে রক্ষা কর. and Russel, their brother–the national whipping boy, the 21, the 26, the 16 huddle, point, screenplay that we heard from our verandas:
Pastiche, like all the others
-that said, they, not her,
not it, not foil archs,
makin’ bubble wrap,
foil, not it, they, anti-thesise,
row, row, row, syntax,
Purr, as verb,
cell, vichy, cell, vichy, cell,
à cult de la raison ,
Today’s screening, overhead:
whether real or imagined,
Der Gefangene! Gefangence!
Wenn es einen Gott gibt muß er mich um Verzeihung bitten.
scrap the Long Kesh off,
my, Soft Grip Wall Paper Stripper
on their 2am circumnavigations,
cumulative spunk, splat, plop,
a roofie, for your thoughts
Those Incorrigibles, Those.
bur lesque quick feet, step-over,
lacan, won’t you please stand by the partisans,
Amar khat ta dehi nore, ma, nipur,
6.7, and feints, and feints,
Recess our shovels,
Hydroelectric surjo sen er bangla never so fine,
Shake and hips, and hips,
And step, and ease,
Isshor, popover, kilos,
Le Meridian. Read about in Harper’s Bazaar.
–late edition, extra, extra. East Pakistani boiled egg, and seven, and eight,
Alamgir, get off your quota,
Have you lost your daughter to Revere’s merrill gel smudging found fathers?
Who will precede your anchor chops,
Tribunal-thwart house of saud,
Paltan, purana Paltan,
Tomar tak e dekhi phensedyl,
haat e dekhi ashbari,
chetonay shuni Pathankhot,
Shib Naryan er jhulanto srom,
Tui, razakar, Tui, razakar,
Ar stadium er bayonet jukti,
gola kata tangail er Sher er slan er jukti,
Is the one my mother woke up to:-
Done. Salaudin. Done. Mujaheed,
Paladin Clinton promises not to jerk off,
while the geographical inheritors of Fanon’s dream, stage a sit-in,
to delay capitulation to a binding nofap policy,
“But, you have raped the world, & now it our turn! We will avenge Bretton Woods, except he will now be tarzan, with a penchant for Oriental Memes”
Yet, the elephant is the room itself,
because the agreement is
–signed in cum–yes, the same, as on her dress.
Now, the vulgarity is slowly shed,
ofcourse, they are fully-fleshed adults,
“No, more shall we scar our mothers for life, as they open our doors uninvited”
this is where the analogy starts to break down,
(bcoz semen claims to be bottomless,
while fossilized dinosaurs are not, as such, reproduced to be reborn into greenhouse gases, at auturky)
Where were we,
III. State of Emergency
the guy pops up incognito,
Says, that nobody goes to Starbucks for the coffee,
they go for the lifestyle,
vis-a-vis why Air France sponsors climate change commissions, when international aviation pokes holes in the ozone faster then a mil., yes you asshole(s), munching down the Champs Elysees?
IV. But, the immigrants,
Non-topic, Subjects are asexual.
V. Broken Windows
galvanize YouTube commentators calling for riot police to unionize
You know you are an asshole when you shit on the people crowding outside Walmart windows for Black Friday.
Please go back to watching Obama circa ’08 speeches on your 64′
(Also, I hear, Bush after Katrina got rave reviews,)
Brazilian wheat: unconsummable,Keno?
To ki hoise?
Excess gets dumped after the markets reject it,
So, you get the rotten ha…
..Ar ki shunbo apnar tekhe
Krishok foshol kate,
Zamidar foshol beche,
Dokandar abar beche,
Foshol na kinle,
Fosholer dam bare,
Krishok halka hoy,
Fosholer dam bare,
Zamidarer bulb jole
Foshol dhakay jay,
Foshol poche jay,
Foshol kome jay,
Fosholer dam bare,
Krishok halka hoy.
da Pujibadi Feedback loop.xoxo
But also to yourself, who tries to understand.
Textbooks are for learning, to give to
nobody’s children, owners of nothing
The nobodies: the no-ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way
But textbooks are for cutting garmentwallahthroats in their sleep, for the ones
Who are not, but could be. Who don’t speak languages, but dialects
Because art galleries don’t pay minimum wage; textbooks are for
Who don’t have religions, but superstitions
–Overhung microphones swinging for a purpose,
Who don’t create art, but handicrafts. Who don’t have culture, but folklore. Who are not human beings, but human resources
Who are Section 144’s fashi chai Mussolinis but in countries where the trains forgot to run on time.
Who do not have faces, but arms. Who do not have names, but numbers,
Where “Yaar muje bhuk lagri hae” appears as white noise.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the crime reports of the local paper
On the pigeon holed, left-field, cubicles in the tabloid section, where Ershad’s fists slam the tinted windows, when the CMH psych ward sodomizes our gun-wielding, porn-addict, forever unable to use a keyboard to masturbate.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.
Don’t have your passport sown to a كَندورَة , when you are out in a tight dress to get hit on by
Abood & Hamoods.
NaPoWriMo: Day 12
“A Man May Cease Beating His Wife Without Thereby Creating a Wholesome Marital Relationship.”
কবিতা :How would you describe poetry? And following from your description, how would you characterize the contemporary poetry scene in Dhaka, and indeed across Bangladesh? Is there hope?
Syed Shamsul Haque: “Poetry is inspired dialogue. A poet deals with both internal or personal feeling and collective conscience…we need a collective voice for composing poetry. We are going through a drought where good poetry has become scarce.”
Syed Shamsul Haque- এই ইতিহাস ভুলে যাবো আজ, আমি কি তেমন সন্তান ?
কবিতা: Etihash kemon kore bhullam?
Ajke, baire jaan ni?
Projonmo ra to Coachella
Waiting for the reincarnation of
3(insert000s) backfromthedead Jesus looklikes anticipating the beep
Of a Mollah’s
Adaptation of Mersault on the scaffold.
Out of bamboo.
But not verses.
No thread to hang on;
Guess where I am.
Pantaloons stiff live wire;
Bangla Baazar projecting holograms of
Espionage, pre ’17;
Headphone in on
Bhaath ar Shorshey ilish,
As he spoke while chewing:
“saying:–I did those then
but that was then
that was then—“
২. Eber Shomadhan Jatra:
• …Onek Mahilar Chhobi deklam apnader modhe.
• Public Wi-fi chai, Dhaka Universitir Hall gula te jerokom den, orokom na kintu!
• Apnar mobile theke Lotus Kamal Tower er number ti delete kora chai.
• Apni 1171 shale ki korechen shunte chai……………………………………..Na.
• Scotch tape chai.
৩. Tourniquet- to pacify undesirables.
We interrupt this live transmission from the hubbub of the Old World Rentiers ,
To bring you Mr. James Baldwin reporting from the Occupied Territories, Harlem, New York, July 11, 1966..
Take it away,
“I can’t believe what you say,
Because I see what you do.”
–what’s going on over here?
You grew up here, what does that all mean,
How does it relate to what we were just talking about?
“This means that I also know, in my own flesh,
and know, which is worse,
in the scars borne by many of those dearest to me,
the thunder and fire of the billy club,
the paralyzing shock of spittle in the face,
and I know what it is to find oneself blinded,
on one’s hands and knees,
at the bottom of the flight of steps down which one has just been hurled.”
–Breaking–কেন্দ্রীয় কারাগারে 6 antebellum treasures were
Stop and frisked on their way down the elevator.
As portals rotated to a nativity scene on the ground floor,
Members of the press capitulated to the efforts of the civilized
To..to..to hug her white brother without a hack to his back.
What do they say in Washington?
Do you think that any of those unemployed, unemployable Negroes who are going to be on the streets all summer will cause us any trouble? What do you think we should do about it?
But, later on,
I concluded that I had got the second part of the question wrong,
they really meant,
… what was I going to do about it?
–ATTICA! ATTICA! What?
…I know Negroes who have gone literally mad because they wished to become commercial air-line pilots.
–What does that have to do with…
…The children, having seen the spectacular defeat of their fathers—having seen what happens to any bad nigger and, still more, what happens to the good ones—cannot listen to their fathers and certainly will not listen to the society which is responsible for their orphaned condition.
— Mr Baldwin…
–James! But, the Negroes…
…contain an incontestable vitality and authority. This is far more than can be said of the middle class which, in any case, and whether it be black or white, does not dare to cease despising him.
–Jim! Fucking stop, I can’t! I don’t want to live! This…
Occupied territory is occupied territory,
Even though it be found in that New World…
In occupied territory
that any act of resistance, even though it be executed by a child,
Be answered at once, and with the full weight of the occupying forces.
–I am on ma’ knees, on ma’ knees, on ma’ knees,
Graduate of Faulkner’s playhouse.
Been born again! Man.
I want it. I need it. Hit me:
Scaldings paint jobs;
Karon shoti, ashsholey,
ধরা পড়ছে, ধরা পড়ছে আয়নাতে চেহারা।
Karon shoti, ashsholey,
ধরা পড়ছে, ধরা পড়ছে- হাতকড়াতে হাত।
“They don’t want us here. They don’t want us—period! All they want us to do is work on these penny-ante jobs for them—and that’s it. And beat our heads in whenever they feel like it. They don’t want us on the street ’cause the World’s Fair is coming. And they figure that all black people are hoodlums anyway, or bums….
So they put us off the streets, so their friends from Europe, Paris or Vietnam—wherever they come from—can come and see this supposed-to-be great…”
Perm my intuition with polli kobi nacher gaans:
This has nothing to do with nothing,
To do with nothing to do with nothing.
–X! X! X! Ech…ss
Lol, u r nt worth it,
Rather listen to Catalan girls strumming Kurt Cobain.
Let’s get loaded and have a good time.
Theses are turnstile, yellow:
Draft dodgers watching Woodstock in celluloid.
Weekends are 8+n hours for stressed jeans,
Middle and index are Coco.
Chanel on coke.
Maternities period vaginas for tailors,
If only the incubator knew,
About the million wouldbe comforters earthed in sepulchers barred from grocery shopping.
Cannot write haikus.
Linguistics evolve but, A-Z is never okie under the aegis of old poetmen, unless you are Chuck Norris.
The streets are where it is,
You write with
Chin on pillow,
The streets are always where it is.
Where it will be, though,
NYT might be 60-40 advertisement,
And Johnson & Johnson might pull cheques when someone inks that fair is not the lore,
Yemen was not the site of a mass carbon creation from carcass.
From death being suppressed through the Jurassic to fuel instantaneously
A cities’ blow dryers on call,
To break up labour disputes.
Day 10: NaPoWriMo
Too Many Thoughts:
This will be short, I promise you.
Some poems are more equal than others.
So, Adele asked me to ask you to guess which poet had written this:
“If I should die,
You would dance needles down my spine,
If din rustled against window panes
Rope me in, and settle me in brine!”
So for a test, indulge Adele, and guess.
Please, my friends, this will make Adele’s day.
Adele see’s many hands up:
“O’ Hara”, too New York
“Kaiser”, too unsureofhisplaceintheworld,
“Tahmima”, too iamnottalkingaboutherfather,
“Bukowski”, too hipster,
“Plath”, too biased.
Someone every one respects but no has read:
It’s also the young girl, no not that one,
Chased away by Emily Dickinson’s gentlemen for scavenging the trash for badgers.
কথা #১: Jamdani
And I understand that you have a poem for Miss Bartoli?
Sadaf: “You are one of countless
Whose story was never told
And never will
As all records were burnt.
And you will never come forward
As your people brutalized you over again.
As your government
Washed its hands
Of you and your sacrifice
And doesn’t want to know
What you went through then.
And still are now
If you managed to survive.”
Sadaf, and you are the Director of Hay Dhaka,
A festival many people have decried as exclusionary to vast sections of the Bengali population.
What do you say to these critics?
Sadaf: “We want to push the boundaries of knowledge…..The idea is to take literature beyond an elite few, and make it engaging, accessible and relevant to a wider audience.”
Adele: All right, then.
Tell us a little bit about yourself.
You spent your childhood abroad before moving here, yes?
So, how did you make that transition, especially you being the daughter of one of the most esteemed scientists in Bangladesh, Jamal Nazrul Islam.
Sadaf: “I was not interested to come here with my parents and couldn’t even speak Bangla language properly,..
At that time I was sixteen and it was huge cultural shock for me as I grew up in England,”
And how did you experience this shock?
Sadaf: “The idea of Bangladesh is terrifying to a lot of people,..The main perception? That the country is all about ‘floods and poverty’,”
Adele: That is very true, actually. Bangladesh has become virtually synonymous with poverty.
But what people fail to realize is that there is more to Bangladesh, like economic progress, and women’s empowerment,
Through the RMG sector.
And Bangladesh is always brimming with people ready to rejuvenate the country in the minds of foreigners, isn’t that right?
Sadaf: “We’ve kind of got the product ready. So now it’s kind of like,
‘Do come to Bangladesh’
…Sometimes we take them to a social initiative, an orphanage, maybe show them how women do microcredit,”
Adele: Tell us a little about women in Bangladesh, for us foreigners, in terms of advancement, and more specifically how you have contributed to this.
Sadaf: Eikhane….Khub interesting ekta ghotona ache. Ami ekta garments factorir shate jorito. To…um…ah…ekta Mae onek din dhore kaj korche, ebong…borong shey grame eshe ek joner shathe…
She met him…and she married him.…
Hae…to…ekhon garments factory te ekta day care ache,
So prothome ektu conservative je na ami tomar jonno provide korbo…To bollo je thik ache ami kaj kori, mae ke, Amar choto mae ke daycarey rakhbo kintu,
Um….bollo je thik ache tumi kaj koro, kintu, je ta tumi aye koro sheta tumi maeyr name ekta jomi Kine rakho.
Adele: How delightful!
I am afraid, though, that we are at the end,
The audience grows frustrated even as I do not speak,
So finally, how do you see yourself?
In regards to fitting in with the larger fabric of the country?
Sadaf: “…Amar mone hoy amar motoi, kintu, shobai”
Adele: Thank you. That’s all for today, folks.
Thank you Gerald Kaufman