Ijtema <i>Encounters</i>
Ajahad and Feroz. Photo: Ihtisham Kabir
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel. The four boys are arguing over a card game. They are hidden behind a tea stall on a path that was trodden by millions in three days. I compose and take a picture, but they are completely engrossed in their bid to win.
Waiting for the Akheri Munajat (final prayer) at the Bishwa Istema, I am meeting and photographing people.
The boys are Shumon, Shajon, Mishan and Shakib. I ask them about the Istema. They were busy selling. Shumon sold Muri, Shajon sold boiled eggs and Mishan sold lemonade for 10 Taka per glass.
The fourth boy Shakib remains quiet. After some prodding, he says he sold clean water in bodnas for attendees to perform their Waju (washing before prayers), for five taka per bodna.
They all live in the bustee nearby.
I find 80-year-old Banesa and her daughters Khaleda and Faria waiting for the Munajat near a foot over bridge. They arrived here yesterday from Kishoreganj in a bus, with a group totalling nineteen people. “What do you do in Kishoreganj?” I ask. “We are farmers. We grow rice and vegetables,” Khaleda replies. What kind of vegetables? “Oh, so many kinds... mula, eggplant, shim, onions.”
“Have you made some profits this year?” I ask. “Yes, our crops did well,” the sisters, who have families and children, say happily.
How was the Istema? “It was a good experience,” says Faria, “We will come again next year.”
Worry-beads (tosbih), caps and religious paraphernalia are being sold in many stalls. In one such stall, I spy a smiling boy through the strands of hanging tosbihs and take two quick pictures. His father sits next to him.
He is Ajahad Chishtia. His son Feroz is ten years old; daughter Chameli is five.
“What is selling well here?” I ask. Besides tosbihs, which go for Taka 25-40, he mentions hats and gemstones. “Gemstones? For men?” I ask. “Yes, particularly the Akik stone,” he replies. Worn on a ring, this stone brings good health and blessings, he claims.
I ask Ajahad where he lives. “Right here,” he says, pointing to the small tin-roof house abutting his stall.
Then I ask the son, Feroz, where he goes to school. He keeps smiling but remains quiet. Sensing my confusion, Ajahad intercedes. “He is protibondhi - he cannot speak.” What about special schools? “They are far - the closest is in Mirpur,” he says.
It is only after I talk to them that I realise the breadth of security forces. There is SWAT, RAB, District Police, Metropolitan Police, Traffic Police, Ansars, Battalion police and plainclothesmen. All are courteous and friendly. At several buildings I search around looking for stairs to the roof (for my photos.) Helpful guides appear magically each time. At noon I walk into a confectionary store for a bottle of Mum. After gulping it down, I search my pockets for cash. “That's ok, you look thirsty - I can't take money from you!” says the owner.
I feel lucky to have met so many generous souls today.
Comments