Impressions
Finding
Old
in the New
Iffat
Nawaz
Sometimes
a woman has to spend a few thousands, travel half way around
the world, walk miles and burn in the scorching sun to realise
a truth that was in front of her all along .
A
recent trip to New Orleans, Louisiana brought out these feelings
in me, as we wasted film after film taking pictures and the
buckles of our shoes gave up on us walking through every block
of French history. It was during the 100th snap- shot of a
hanging veranda when I recognised I had seen this somewhere
before. Similar architecture, two-storey structure raised
on low brick piers. Side-gabled or hipped roof, covered two-storey
galleries framed by columns supporting entablature, asymmetrical
arrangement of facade openings, some more insignificant than
others, simple two or one stories with metal railings and
long wooden windows. It dawned on me, New Orleans or, as they
call it, the “Big and Easy” which pulls in millions
from its tourism market, is so terribly similar to our Dhaka's
old town or as we call it "puran Dhaka”.
Maybe
it is just my ignorance of architecture which made me compare
the two, but a feeling is a feeling, so my mind couldn't help
but compare and contrast. The narrow streets, the style of
homes, the revolving fans and the humidity in the air, I could
just close my eyes and feel at home, felt like I was roaming
through the streets of Wari or Gandaria, even the unique smell
was present, the smell of garbage, sweat, urine and something
delicious and fried, the difference was, here it was fried
calamari which added the deep-fried aroma while in Gandaria
it was daal puri and alur chop, the mouth-watering
yet non-glamorous delicacies of puran Dhaka. I so
badly wondered why I was here being beaten by wanna-be French
mosquitoes and getting an unnecessary tan while I could do
the same in the streets of Lokkhibazar, finding similarly
intricate homes with open courtyards surrounded by red brick
walls and banana trees, ingredients for a perfectly authentic
picture.
Sitting
near the port of Mississippi River I thought about Buri Ganga,
right near Faridabad, a part of old town which is unpopular
to locals, forget about marketing it for tourism. I closed
my eyes and imagined, couldn't old town Dhaka become similar
to New Orleans? With some history and some authenticity, the
old houses which stand in the streets of puran Dhaka,
can't they be a subject of a perfect photograph?
Can't
we attract tourists around the world during Durga Pooja
to come and experience the ever-so original festivities, tasting
thousands of kinds of sweets and hearing the constant beat
of Dhaka? Can't we make a bigger facade around Poush Sankranti
inviting the whole world to experience the art created by
Bangali children to adults, a wild game on open roof tops
with a kite covered sky? Can't we promote Bakhorkhani and
Nehari the way New Orleans markets Jambalaya?
I
was crossing a long line of hungry tourists, who waited for
an empty table at a historic restaurant of New Orleans. The
specialty of this particular eatery was that it lacked electricity
and burned candles in each table, it created an ancient environment,
and the only modern touch at this place was the ATM machine
and perhaps the brands of alcohol. I smiled to myself thinking
about the constant electricity-failures in old town Dhaka,
how one country's annoyance can be another country's fantasy…
Walking
through the streets, we saw through the windows of the exclusive
and pricey restaurants, and outside where homeless men and
women huddled waiting for a posh shoe to polish so they could
make a dollar or two, to buy food or drugs. I thought about
Dhaka once again…
While
I was bargaining away at the French market -- a total Gausia
market style vendor's haven--I met a man from Jaipur. Sweating
in unbearable heat, selling t-shirts and hand bags, when we
got to talking he told me about how he is currently the oldest
vendor at this French market. He has been handling this shop
for last 19 years, packing up at the end of the day and setting
up the next, money for his two sons’ education who are
both in medical school.
I
asked him why he doesn't go back to India. Now that he has
spent his good years here maybe he can spend the better years
back home. He gave me a blank look and said nothing.
It
is easier to be slaves in another country when none of your
own kinds are watching. It is much easier to be of service
to foreigners in a foreign land and not your own, and it's
much easier to obliterate history with sallow arrogance than
make money off of it, holding all the essential ingredients
to attract tourism and misusing every bit of it. I guess our
Old town Dhaka will never be like New Orleans. Using our past
and our failures we will continue to beg foreign organisations
and developed countries for aid, we won't use our history,
our old town as a pride and welcome the world with Bangali
hospitality. We would rather receive without providing service,
we would rather destroy than preserve. And just like me right
now, we would rather complain than take action.
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