All things come to an end
I have just returned from Dinajpur, where I presented my (well, I like to think so anyway!) 12 girls with their certificates for successfully completing the first garment course of TAC Social. 
When I arrived a few days earlier, I found them together with Morshidul at his desk, which was covered in stacks of impeccably folded garments of bizarre but obviously carefully chosen colour combinations. These were the samples they had produced in their class and they were busy deciding at what price they would sell them at during the May 1 Labour Day celebration two days later. The mix of pride and excitement on their faces, and that of Morshidul, almost brought me to tears. I can’t say exactly how these past three months will change their lives, but I know it will somehow and its overwhelming to think I had some small part in that.
On May 1, Novara Technical School hosts a huge annual celebration. In the spirit of the occasion I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to wear a sari, which the girls were more than delighted to help me get into. They also insisted on painting my lips with lip liner and darkening my eyebrows and, in the spirit of the occasion, I didn’t protest.
In classic Bangla style, everything was very formal, starting with the inauguration ceremony, which involved a procession of dancers and drummers, followed by dignitaries (including myself, to give you an idea of what a dignitary consists of here) donning chains of marigolds, who marched through the gate to the field where the celebration would be held and sat on a special shaded stage set up for the event.
The Catholic Bishop and the Italian Ambassador raised the flags of the school and the nation respectively, and students lined up in neat, military rows sang the national anthem, beautifully. Although I don’t know all the words, its melody alone gives goosebumps.
The morning was packed with organized games and competitions, in which all participants except the first three would undoubtedly drop out before finishing! I also spent some time with my ridiculously proud girls at their stand, watching them sell off all their hardwork to generate funds for the next course.
After lunch, there were cultural performances in which the number of boys dancing, most like Bollywood movie stars, outnumbered the girls by 100 to 1. There were also some lovely songs, a lot of plates and umbrellas distributed as prizes for those who had won the morning’s events and, of course, the required number of speeches.
Eventually it was the moment Morshidul, myself and our 12 garment girls had been waiting for. Massimo introduced us by explaining how happy they were to have this new course for girls at NTS and then Morshidul read out the name of each girl as they walked on stage, said “Thank you” into the microphone and accepted a gushing congratulations from me with a shy smile that betrayed only a minute portion of the emotion I know they felt.
The day ended with the weighing of a cow to determine the winner of the guessing contest that had been running all day, and the drawing of lottery tickets for a number of prizes including the grand prize of a television. Call me crazy, but I think it might have been better to award them with the cow, but those are my backward priorities for you!
~
Saying goodbye to the Fathers and Brothers last night – after another wonderful meal that started with salami and ended with Grappa – I was sad to think that I might not be spending much more time there. I have to say, given the fear with which I approached my relationship with a Catholic Institution, the members of the PIME who I have had the incredible fortune to meet and spend time with have wiped away any preconceptions I had of condom-condemning missionaries. Rarely have I met people so open, so accepting, so easygoing, so hardworking, so dedicated, or so happy. I laughed often in their company and learned a lot about modern Catholics, not because they forced anything upon me – the closest I got to a religious sermon was a loan of U2’s Vertigo Tour on DVD – but because I was able to talk with them openly about their beliefs and the work they do. I have nothing but praise for those men, and their coffee.
I will also miss the school itself, the peaceful atmosphere, the hardworking students moving about, the level of organization, the feeling of learning in the air, the rows of lychee trees, the meandering cows… I leave with many good memories, especially of the night I spent at the adjacent parish dancing with the primary students, who taught me traditional Santali dances until the sound of drums and prepubescent voices shouting “TOMAR NAM KI?” was ringing in my ears.
~
The drive back to Dhaka, while long and now familiar, was lovely. I am endlessly awed by the constant changes in scenery here. Perhaps growing up in a place known for being evergreen has something to do with it.
This week, Bangladesh is getting a haircut. The ‘boro’ harvest, one of three traditional rice varieties, has begun and everywhere men, and a few women, are shaving into the mature rice paddies, one swift swing of the sickle at a time, revealing long forgotten straight rows of brown stubble. The patches that remain are a mix of green, yellow and golden brown, and while they lack the pizzazz of pure emerald paddies, in the right light they have a special glow that is arguably even more beautiful.
In a land of chaos, it’s incredible how organized rice cultivation is. Cut plants are laid in neat rows before being piled into huge bundles and carried off atop a head or on the bouncy ends of a bamboo pole above bare or barely sandled feet that scarcely leave the ground in a sort of run-walk. These bundles are transformed into golden muffin cups of rice ‘grass’ and neat rows of grains in their husks being dried on concrete pads (did I get it right this time, Dad?).
To top it all off, the flame trees ('krishna achura' here) are laden with flaming red blossoms even brighter than their name implies.
I must say, I mourn the loss of greenness, but in this place of constant cyclical change I know that no one pigmentary state will endure. It won’t be long before brown becomes pale dots of green and then a sea of emerald that yellows before it is shaved back down to its brown roots; a colourful order interrupted only by the monsoons, which will turn vast stretches of land into the personal looking glass of the sky.
When I arrived a few days earlier, I found them together with Morshidul at his desk, which was covered in stacks of impeccably folded garments of bizarre but obviously carefully chosen colour combinations. These were the samples they had produced in their class and they were busy deciding at what price they would sell them at during the May 1 Labour Day celebration two days later. The mix of pride and excitement on their faces, and that of Morshidul, almost brought me to tears. I can’t say exactly how these past three months will change their lives, but I know it will somehow and its overwhelming to think I had some small part in that.
On May 1, Novara Technical School hosts a huge annual celebration. In the spirit of the occasion I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to wear a sari, which the girls were more than delighted to help me get into. They also insisted on painting my lips with lip liner and darkening my eyebrows and, in the spirit of the occasion, I didn’t protest.In classic Bangla style, everything was very formal, starting with the inauguration ceremony, which involved a procession of dancers and drummers, followed by dignitaries (including myself, to give you an idea of what a dignitary consists of here) donning chains of marigolds, who marched through the gate to the field where the celebration would be held and sat on a special shaded stage set up for the event.
The Catholic Bishop and the Italian Ambassador raised the flags of the school and the nation respectively, and students lined up in neat, military rows sang the national anthem, beautifully. Although I don’t know all the words, its melody alone gives goosebumps.The morning was packed with organized games and competitions, in which all participants except the first three would undoubtedly drop out before finishing! I also spent some time with my ridiculously proud girls at their stand, watching them sell off all their hardwork to generate funds for the next course.
After lunch, there were cultural performances in which the number of boys dancing, most like Bollywood movie stars, outnumbered the girls by 100 to 1. There were also some lovely songs, a lot of plates and umbrellas distributed as prizes for those who had won the morning’s events and, of course, the required number of speeches.Eventually it was the moment Morshidul, myself and our 12 garment girls had been waiting for. Massimo introduced us by explaining how happy they were to have this new course for girls at NTS and then Morshidul read out the name of each girl as they walked on stage, said “Thank you” into the microphone and accepted a gushing congratulations from me with a shy smile that betrayed only a minute portion of the emotion I know they felt.
The day ended with the weighing of a cow to determine the winner of the guessing contest that had been running all day, and the drawing of lottery tickets for a number of prizes including the grand prize of a television. Call me crazy, but I think it might have been better to award them with the cow, but those are my backward priorities for you!
~
Saying goodbye to the Fathers and Brothers last night – after another wonderful meal that started with salami and ended with Grappa – I was sad to think that I might not be spending much more time there. I have to say, given the fear with which I approached my relationship with a Catholic Institution, the members of the PIME who I have had the incredible fortune to meet and spend time with have wiped away any preconceptions I had of condom-condemning missionaries. Rarely have I met people so open, so accepting, so easygoing, so hardworking, so dedicated, or so happy. I laughed often in their company and learned a lot about modern Catholics, not because they forced anything upon me – the closest I got to a religious sermon was a loan of U2’s Vertigo Tour on DVD – but because I was able to talk with them openly about their beliefs and the work they do. I have nothing but praise for those men, and their coffee.
I will also miss the school itself, the peaceful atmosphere, the hardworking students moving about, the level of organization, the feeling of learning in the air, the rows of lychee trees, the meandering cows… I leave with many good memories, especially of the night I spent at the adjacent parish dancing with the primary students, who taught me traditional Santali dances until the sound of drums and prepubescent voices shouting “TOMAR NAM KI?” was ringing in my ears.
~
The drive back to Dhaka, while long and now familiar, was lovely. I am endlessly awed by the constant changes in scenery here. Perhaps growing up in a place known for being evergreen has something to do with it.
This week, Bangladesh is getting a haircut. The ‘boro’ harvest, one of three traditional rice varieties, has begun and everywhere men, and a few women, are shaving into the mature rice paddies, one swift swing of the sickle at a time, revealing long forgotten straight rows of brown stubble. The patches that remain are a mix of green, yellow and golden brown, and while they lack the pizzazz of pure emerald paddies, in the right light they have a special glow that is arguably even more beautiful.
In a land of chaos, it’s incredible how organized rice cultivation is. Cut plants are laid in neat rows before being piled into huge bundles and carried off atop a head or on the bouncy ends of a bamboo pole above bare or barely sandled feet that scarcely leave the ground in a sort of run-walk. These bundles are transformed into golden muffin cups of rice ‘grass’ and neat rows of grains in their husks being dried on concrete pads (did I get it right this time, Dad?).
To top it all off, the flame trees ('krishna achura' here) are laden with flaming red blossoms even brighter than their name implies.
I must say, I mourn the loss of greenness, but in this place of constant cyclical change I know that no one pigmentary state will endure. It won’t be long before brown becomes pale dots of green and then a sea of emerald that yellows before it is shaved back down to its brown roots; a colourful order interrupted only by the monsoons, which will turn vast stretches of land into the personal looking glass of the sky.
posted by ash at 11:26 PM
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