From the wild and crazy loud streets of Dhaka, to the tight recesses of the housing apartments that encase many houses behind them. Shreya came to an opening with rows upon rows of houses stacked on top of each other, what could be assumed how the first flats resembled.
Shrestha greeted Shreya with her joyful smile, in the opening, gleefully told her to go through passages to the end where Shreya's class will take place. She could not stay for long as she was immediately whisked away by a bunch of ladies of various ages, that looked like they were off on a march, but in truth they were all off to get the sewn goods, with the added tightening here or the loosening of fabric on the blouses or Meski.
Shreya continued through an archway, through a series of passages to an open landing and porch, where a large uproar could be heard for miles, if not for the houses that dampened them.
The ladies in the local, had gathered, it was fascinating how they chopped things seated on newspaper on the porch floor. Instead of a knife, seen in western and modern cultures, they all used a blade that curved like a prow of a boat, carving, and cutting everything as if sailing through water.
The blade was hinged at one end to a narrow steel base. The steel, more black than silver, lacked a uniform polish, and had a serrated crest, another couple of women were grating coconuts from the furry shell exterior. It seemed that there were at least one in every household.
Every so often, other women would come out of their household carrying along their blade. As they sit, they lock it into place, so that it met the base at an angle. Facing the sharp edge without ever touching it, a lady took whole vegetables between her hands and hacked them apart: cauliflower, cabbage, butternut squash. Splitting them in half then quarters, speedily producing florets, cubes, slices, and fine julienne.
Watching in amazement as they peel potatoes in seconds, potatoes skins coming off in uniform ribbons. Each woman had their own preference of seating, some sat cross-legged, some sat legs splayed, or one knee against their chest whilst the other splayed, and all surrounded by an array of colanders and shallow bowels of water, in which chopped ingredients were immersed.
As they worked, they kept eyes on their kids that were playing in the area and on each other as they laugh and gossiped in full volume, but they never seemed to keep an eye on the blade.
Confetti of cucumber, eggplant and onion skin heaped around them. It was impossible to deter from listening to their chatter. Some began to pry the pimpled yellow fat off chicken parts, then dividing them between thigh and leg bones cracked apart over the blade, their conch shell bangles jostled with their red glass and heavy caret gold bangles. Others had a school of fish in a thatched basket next to them, a stream of blood and water sieved out of them.
The women inspected them, and one by one she drew them tinged in blood and glistening. She stroked the tail and pressed the belly, with the blade gutted the flesh and clipped the fins, tucked a finger under the gills, and grasped the body with both hands at either end, and notched it at intervals against the blade, with swift motion she sawed off the head and set it on a large steel plate, each fish cut, to accommodate 3 meals for a about 100 or so people. The gathering was set up as they prepared for a huge celebration of a birth of a new baby girl to the local, related to the one of the large women in the centre. She had a giant smile across her face, as she chattered about her darling granddaughter.
Shreya couldn't help but take note of this. The scene was warming, how a community like this brought camaraderie and support, which elevated joy of one family to the joy of the community. Unfortunate that She should find the complete opposite when she went into class.
"It's just too hard, I'm really just not feeling it. Maybe I made a mistake Krishan", protested Shreya. After a day of class, her mind and hand just would not move, all day her parchment of white remained that way by the end of the session. She just nodded and acknowledged when the teacher spoke, but nothing went through.
"Look Shreya, it is going to be tough, you've been out of practice, just watch, it will be like riding a bike, once you get going, it will all come back to you again. My dear Shreya, at this moment you need to be comfortable being uncomfortable. You know, I'll tell you what lead me through a wall. All you need to do is persistent hard work, even on bad days just keep going, you will see that little by little it will all pay off. One day you will look back and see that even on bad days you did much more than the last bad, and on good days even better".
"My love just know, I am always here for you Shreya, I believe you are capable of anything you set your mind too; I believe in you" said Krishan supportively. Recollecting those days in medical school, countless times he felt he had hit a wall. Did he give up, not a chance.
The middle of the night Krishan heard her locked inside a nightmare, her animal whimpering startled him, it was the sound of a scream, stifled by clenched teach and a closed mouth, calling out "father please support me" as streams of tears fell. He laid against her listening to her suffer. He held her tightly against him hoping his reassuring embrace passes through to her setting her free, listening quietly, waiting for her terror to end.
As the class is about to begin, the students stream in, trailing at the back was Shreya, trying to look inconspicuous. She parked herself at the back bench, close to the exit, so that if it gets too much for her to handle, she can escape with minimal notice. Looking over her books, her mind felt numb, blank and fussy. Her mind wanders to the bulletin board announcing upcoming lectures and conferences, her eyes follow the line of display cases of books that the professors had published.
Peering at the syllabus from the student next to her, written on the page was a writing course for, introduction to methodical writing,
Though most of the material were familiar from a time long forgotten. She sat for the full class period, she listened to the description of Tagore's philosophy, of a recollection, in which learning was an act of freedom, for both male and female alike, in which to this day is still not a given an equal opportunity. The professor was a Bengali woman dressed in ornate Sun-kissed yellow sari with little black embroidery, although seemed plain, non-stand out ish, in comparison to her dark skin complexion, and dark black hair tied in a bun, that meant only business. Her face seemed to droop, whilst her nose faced the ceiling, her eyebrows seemed to climb into her forehead, overall give a superiority complex. She had a habit of chewing bettle leaf, as she lectured, with perhaps bettle nut, which left a blood red tinge around her gum and teeth, and at the edge of her lips.
Shreya found herself paying attention, eventually wanting to take notes, she searched in her bag for her notebook and pen. Surreptitiously twice a week she began attending the class she wrote down the title of the texts and the reading materials list, and went to the library to borrow the books, she could find.
She intended to remain anonymous to go unnoticed amongst the students, but one day, she was immersed into the lecture, her hand shot up, the professor was speaking about the character design in Tagore's thoughts on women freedom, and how the short story Wife's letter. Had depicted the time of a faceless women society, using synergisms for a valid thought from an invalid one.
"what about dialectical reasoning, one that acknowledges, change and contradiction, as opposed to an established reality could Tagore have expressed that?"
"he did, but no one paid much attention to those concepts, as in his later years he had contradicted this idea, people had seen him marrying off his daughters at a young age".
The professor replied as if Shreya was no different to the rest of the class. The professor spontaneously altered the lesson building upon Shreya's question.
Shreya made a little routine of it too have a question for the teacher. Following the wave of students after class to eat her lunch in the courtyard full of bustling locals, living in the apartments adjoining. She liked to wave and smile as an interaction, but never spoke. The students were about 10 years younger than her. Her experience told her that she could never fit in, and she could not be righter as the students smile, but completely avoid her as if she was from another planet, or an animal for that matter that strolled in unannounced in class.
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The Letters Written
RomanceAll is well for Shreya until her past is revealed... Shreya a young woman unhappily arrange married, as her father was against her marrying her love interest at the time. Although content with her married family, she feels like she is drowning on ju...
