Your sonder, and mine.

'Sonder, noun.
Briefly, "the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own." Originally from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, which has a lot more beautiful neologism definitions like this you might enjoy’

- Urban Dictionary

I sit in my Corolla, as the rain pours down. Dhaka is experiencing the year's first sweet shower. I hum in tune with the rain pellets, satisfied - the math test had gone well, but the dance exam needs to go well too. I need to go see my grandmother, I haven't visited her in weeks, oh and my old friend is supposed to drop by tonight. We haven't talked in ages, wouldn't it be awkward? My grandfather's death is still bothering me but I don't know if I want to talk about it with anyone. I don't know if I'm being a good older sister either. I have a friend who is going crazy, is that relevant? But this one's not about me.
This one's about that man in the blue work shirt under the red umbrella standing near the bus stop, waiting to go home. His kids are excited about his arrival, they have to tell him about the good marks in school and the spider their mother freaked out about in the kitchen today. His wife had made her famous chicken jhaalfirazee because her husband had called her beautiful, for the first time, this very day, ten years ago. The man with the umbrella had forgotten about this not-so-special occasion, but he is still happy, and impatient to go home. He is happy with his small wage, small apartment, and welcoming family. And he really needs that bus to come.
This one is about the young lad sitting at the back of the double-decker BRTC bus, peeping through the window like a hawk. Looking for treasures to grab, but only as a memory to remember while falling asleep at night. He is not a pervert. He just looks for beauties to remember when things get rough. He likes his chest hair and golden chain, why do others make fun of him? Why does no one appreciate him like he appreciates the world (girls, specifically)? He just wants to have fun, with the thumbs up's and call me's. He knows life's too short for the serious business.
This is about the girl in the ragged Mickey Mouse t-shirt and hand-me-down shorts. She doesn't give a damn about the rain because the roses she's selling will wrinkle if she waits till tomorrow. She is the brave warrior, conquering all the puddles and traffic. She earned her medal, with her first sale, smile beaming like all battles were won. And maybe all battles really were won. Maybe because she knew life's little secret -- smelling the roses through thick and thin was the way to go. Or maybe she just earned what she needed to survive the night, under the tin shed, slowly falling asleep to the highway's monotonous lullaby.
This is also about the man behind the wheel of my Corolla, driving day and night to educate his son, make his first cement home. This is about his back pains and frequent grunts, his wife's occasional sweet-talk calls and his shy smile that follows. His expectation of everyone noticing the new shirt he bought and complimenting him about it, and his tired eyes trying to find some horizon, something resembling his village, in this stencil-lined city of drenched buildings and cars.
This can also be about the hyper toddler crossing the street with his mother, like today is his happiest day, or about the old beggar who just gave up on life, or the banker cursing Dhaka's traffic because he was late for a meeting, or the policeman who vows everyday that that day would be his last directing traffic, and the rain that falls without mercy on them all. This can be about all the other people, if we just looked for them.

And this is for Ibrahim bhaiya, for encouraging me to look further and further.