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« on: November 20, 2012, 05:09:09 PM »
For English class, I have started my creative assignment. I was completely lost for plot and my friend told me how in her class they made her do an autobiography. So I started writing about how I went to Bangladesh, and things seemed strange, because I didn't realise how politically involved my family really were, how they tried to pull wool over my eyes and show me the beautiful tea fields over a sunset, but when I met the underpaid, starving people working there, and the illusion was shattered. I haven't finished this yet and it's a first draft but y'know.
The gentle hum of the plane was mind-numbing and my stomach churned from the chalky food, seven excruciating hours had passed, three hours of the flight still remained. I hate travelling long plane journeys; I hate sitting in a metal can brimming with people I don’t like for ten hours to go to a country I despise, to visit a family I don’t know but there I was, doing just that. We were over Dubai now; the land was bathed in a fresh, bright sunlight, shimmering as the light touched the pale buildings. It was well in the day here, but back home, it was late, and my eyes grew heavy with desire to curl up and dream of going to the world below us. Instead, I had to lie back in an uncomfortable plane seat, and desperately force myself to sleep.
I awoke to a familiar smell. To call it musky is an understatement, the scent was overwhelmingly heavy; the air was dusty and felt heavy, like the grime was settling in my lungs. Smells are said to be the strongest link between memories. It clicked and I realised, this was Bangladesh. My mother hurried my bags and I off the plane and into the airport, I took a moment to examine my surroundings; the walls were littered with shabby posters of Bengal tigers, flowers and sunny fields for the tourists, there was pride in a nation that had so little. Before I could ponder it further, I was swept to various offices and eventually, outside.
A woman was waiting; she wore a verdant green sari as warm as her expression. I recognised her as my aunt. My mother ran to her, rejoicing in her presence; four years is a long time for sisters to be apart. My brothers were ecstatic and I… I didn’t really know her. I was the only one who didn’t spend at least three years living with her. After a forced greeting, I silently joined my cousins in the back of the car.
Hours later, we found ourselves in the chaotic streets of Dhaka, the roads were in turmoil and no traffic system was enforced. The cars wore scars and scratches from years of jostling their way through roads. Journeys that would have taken minutes back home took hours, or at least, what felt like hours. At the end of our travel we reached a towering skyscraper, guardsmen stood fixed in front of the blue gate. An oppressive atmosphere clamped down above me, ‘security measures like this for a residential building?’ I whispered, baffled. I peered out from the car, the driver window slowly rolled down, my aunt waved a card and in a matter of seconds, the gate was open.
After opening the door to her apartment, I took off my shoes, expecting to feel the cool marble floor but instead sensing a sandy, gritty substance, I looked down: more dust. Before I could even open my bags I felt a hand on mine, steering me back to the elevator all the way down it and back into the car. "We're going shopping, your mother forgot to bring some things. Is that okay?" It was... my aunt? Yes, my aunt was taking me shopping, claiming she desired some time with her much loved niece. A niece that didn't miss her. She beckoned me inside the worn car and closed the door.