From Jatrabari to Tipu Sultan Road

I had promised my friend Bobby from the Dhaka Art Centre that I would go and meet her parents one day. I did not realise how difficult the prospect was, for one who had seldom travelled by bus except during my time in London, Newcastle and Melbourne. For someone who always went about by car in Dhaka as long as the father was alive to pander to every wild wish of the eldest daughter -- taking the bus was quite a new kettle of fish.
Reaching Motijheel by CNG, we got on to a rickshaw near the much talked about new flyover -- which no one seems to get used to plying as yet. Bobby, who normally happens to be the most gentles of 22-year-old ladies, barked orders to the rough and ready rickshaw-wallahs as if she had been dealing with them since thy kingdom come.
I too jumped up briskly despite my three score and more years. I had but Tk.500, and “we ants never borrow, we ants never lend”. True, I've travelled by rickshaw to The Bangladesh Observer. But that was at least 25 years ago, when my broken leg and hand had not been so weary of walking and frisking.
Reaching Jatrabari by some miracle, Bobby and I walked briskly to her parents' home. There we met her mother Bokul and her dad who teaches Political Science at Sir Salimullah College. At first I was intimidated by the father's qualifications but he turned out to be gentle and understanding, like the rest of his family members.
We watched a movie starring Nicholas Cage and spoke to her lovely sister Jessie who was beautiful as the day -- cream-coloured, lissom and wrapped in smiles. Bobby had brought two presents for the home and that made our day.
The mother, only 42, had a spread of pilaf with dry fruit, chicken with mustard seeds, fried hilsa fish and a mixed vegetable dish. The mum and dad made interesting and intelligent conversation.
The table had a pure cutwork tablecloth while the meal was served on dainty plates, which were placed on thick and groovy black and vermilion placemats.
I really felt special and ate till I was sleepy as a dormouse. I had on my Eid clothes from my best friend in Karachi sans the heavy, lacy, gorgeous dupatta. I had donned the office tag for protection ruffians or police harassment (I've fought with the police at airports on two occasions, and won).
Bobby had a shower, and put on her 'ashes of roses' kurta and I realised that she was mentally prepared to take off to Tipu Sultan Road. We went by Sayedabad, and other such places, past boutiques and eating houses. I was advised to buy souvenirs from Tipu Sultan Road.
Due to the Puja and Eid festivals one could envisage the crowd of women and children with their glittery, colourful clothes, and ribbons apart from other bijoux.
We next hopped on to another rickshaw and whizzed away on a bumpy ride to Madan Dada's house in Tipu Sultan Road with our heads being knocked together like coconuts.
My friend had not realised what charming and interesting children my colleague and his delightful wife had. There was Simi, the promising architect, and Munna and Sony, the two elder, studious and well-behaved brothers.
They had lost so much weight that I could hardly believe the miracle. The house was full of cats -- loving animals by nature. There were monkeys too, as one has heard from one's mother in Kanpur and Nagpur.
There was no division between the Hindus and Muslims then. The Christians were not outcasts either. The mingling of life at this end was truly a breath of fresh air. This was so especially for my friend, who herself is a cat lover.
She was out of her mind with the playful monkeys. But it was a tough task which ended in the CNG in the eveningholding the gifts that Munna had bought for the child's birthday and to celebrate the holiday occasion.