A method in the madness

It's funny how we humans adapt to all kinds of craziness. Only about a year or so we were looking over our shoulder with trepidation, expecting someone to hurl a petrol bomb at us, burning us to timber. But even the possibility of such a horrific fate did not stop us from venturing out; life, after all, had to go on. We were back in the days of rushing through the crazy, frenetic, impossible streets of Dhaka.

It was a typical day, in other words, a day filled with dread of the uncertain but one in which mundane activities like going to work (especially if it was at a newspaper) were still in full force. I managed to coax a CNG-run auto-rickshaw driver to take me to our office on Kazi Nazrul Islam Avenue from Shilpakala Academy. The Almighty had decided to be kind to me and planted an auto-rickshaw driver talking away on his cell phone in a lane outside the Academy. I had spotted him from inside the Academy premises. It was dark and three stray dogs were about to start a heated conversation -- you can tell when they do that growling thing -- but desperation overcame fear and I called out through the openings of the wall to my knight in not so shining  armour "Ayje Bhai CNG!".

After reluctantly cutting his phone call short we were off. While trying not to be squashed into a pulp by the murir tin buses that managed to sway around like drunken Hawaiian dancers, we enviously watched the line of motorcyclists zoom by the pavement bordering Ramna Park while pedestrians hopped, skipped and jumped to avoid collision.

"This is quite a jam," I exclaimed to break the ice. The auto-rickshaw driver laughed and said, "It's not just quite a jam – it's a kotheen (roughly translated as 'terrific') jam." It was just the cue I needed; soon enough I found out that this 30ish young fellow was from Madaripur, lived in Rampura and had a five-year-old daughter called Maria who had just started school. "So aren't the schools closed these days because of the hartal?" I asked. "Well at first  they had kept it closed," he said, "but we live in a mahalla (neighbourhood), so it's quite safe and they have started classes again."  Our conversation came to an abrupt end as the traffic cleared and we were zooming off again. I watched mesmerised, a young boy in punjabi-payjama and prayer cap on his head run with his burka–clad mother or aunt, to get on a bus. The boy had already boarded the bus but the elderly woman could not make it, so he jumped off, falling on his back on the hard street. I was horrified imagining the kind of injuries the boy must have sustained. But to my amazement I saw the boy and his companion running again after the same bus -- this time they both made it and I let out a sigh of relief.

Soon we reached our destination and I handed my saviour the fare and a bit extra. "Thank you Mannan Bhai," I said so relieved I had reached in one piece. "Welcome Madam", he smartly replied as he took out his cell phone to take a call.