The Family

I suppose that now I’m leaving Rajshahi I should write about the family. The family I know better than any other in Bangladesh and so it’s really the closest thing to a family I have here. Not that I’ve ever been to their house or have ever had more than a perfunctory word with a few of them. My front room overlooks their house and yard and as my desk is in front of the window I’ve had many hours to be distracted by the view. I honestly think that they kept me sane during my time here by providing such a brilliantly human dimension to my experience which has sometimes been lonely and somewhat existential. I’ve felt somewhere in between an anthropologist and a Peeping Tom (although what is the difference other than perhaps a professional/amateur interest and approach?) watching them over the days. I have become aware of their relationships, of their dramas, of their daily lives and rhythms. The matriarch of the family is the indomitable, charismatic Sheela. She is probably in her early thirties, has incredible bronze skin, dark black shiny hair, and a powerful body after years of housework which, in Bangladesh, involves feats of strength and stamina that would confound most English athletes. She has two small children. She worries though because they can’t read or write and she doesn’t have the money to give them the education she wants for them.

Whilst I find the life very interesting from the outside the fact is that it seems to be somewhat of a treadmill with no spare money or time for social advance. There are nine of them in total consisting of three generations as far as I can count. However, even Sheela’s mum, the eldest of the family, is probably only in her fifties and so they’re a young bunch. They get up before I do and go to bed later than me and it would appear that the entire day is spent keeping the house ticking over. This is, of course, only a job for the women as the men go out to work long hours driving trucks or pulling rickshaws. And so, for the most part, this is a female domain. Indeed I feel privileged to be a party to this as the Bangladeshi house is a rather restricted zone for men. We are usually confined to the front rooms with no access to the inner workings. And so I get to see these women relax. I mean they are visibly more relaxed when the men are away; less shouting, more time taken over things, they laugh together and enjoy each others’ company. From my understanding this family still follows the rhythms of a rural household. There are two goats and a cow in the yard. They provide muck that is taken onto the roof and dried into patties which are then used as fuel for the fire to cook the food. Also on the roof beautiful clothes of every colour are dried, as is the straw that provides food for the goats and cow. There is a well pump which they use for drinking water and for washing themselves and their clothes. At the back of the yard there is a toilet. This is really just a bricked off area to provide a little privacy although privacy is not really an issue here. Indeed I’ve been confronted by blank stares when I’ve tried to explain to people here my need for privacy and how sometimes I just want to be by myself.

The children here are also fascinating. In England there seems to be a current trend to treat children like incredibly fragile objects. Not so here. The kids quite happily play on the roof, race up and down the bamboo ladder, balance precariously on brick walls, and are expected to help with many of the household chores, some of which involve using knives around twice their size. And yet the only times it ends in tears is when they get ignored for a while. One of them is a 'dushto chele' (cheeky boy) who tears around on the roof scuffing up the straw and throwing sticks. Here's a picture of the little bugger.

I’m really sorry I’m leaving this family behind because I feel genuinely attached to them. I believe I’ve learnt more about Bangladesh by observing their comings and goings than I ever would had I not seen it. What they think of me I don’t know. Probably a strange Gollum-like creature (if they’re conversant with the works of Tolkien) who peers from behind his laptop at them and who can only say one or two sentences before sheepishly retreating into his lonely prison cell.