Taking a moment: it’s raining in Bangladesh.

Its been raining randomly during the day for a couple of weeks now. Sometimes it rains in the morning when you wake up to see your room still in the dark. You step out to get a rickshaw, having to tip toe your way as you circulate mud puddles. You have to carefully place the blue plastic blankets the rickshawalla will give you to cover yourself, if you choose though really they do nothing to prevent the vengeful rain. You forget to not wear white today and there goes the just ironed, perfectly tailored tunic of yours.

Sometimes it’s late at night when simultaneously electricity would go out and you would be forced to stand in the veranda overlooking the view of the city from the third floor. From that view you will see random pockets in empty, half built apartment buildings in Baridhara where temporary tenants rush to use their scraps of tin to hold the water from gushing into their makeshift beds. They do this while managing their already wet lungi wrapped haphazardly across their thin hips and a half burnt, 2 taka cigarette.

The afternoon is the best. Kids rush out  in my school in the middle of a lesson during fifth period into the long patios that circle every floor, facing an open courtyard. They face the wind they miss in their stuffy classrooms with fifty others, uniformed, hair tied, shoes neat, clean. Even the teachers, the masters of model behavior are temporarily distracted. I am asked to go to the roof with one of them even, where just before it gets to be a real storm I get to see the entire cityscape of Uttara about to be cleansed of its pollution for the day. In that roof there are rows and rows of vegetables planed carefully by the students- tomatoes, baby bitter-melons, okras, chilli peppers, as well as jars of pickled olives and green mangoes. Neat laminated rectangles are attached to these terracotta pots where neat handwritings pop up from the stark whiteness of the papers.

Many kids don’t remember to bring their umbrellas on purpose. There is a particular liking here in Bangladesh for getting wet in the rain. Commercials for local mobile networks on the television will always include the scene of a wet rice paddy or a busy side street in the city drenched in rain with people running gleefully. At the same time the aging aunty living in your building will tell you to be careful, don’t get wet, cover your head, you will get sick. But she too probably loved and still wishes to be young again and in the rain when it used to be appropriate, half listening to her mother say the same.

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