Kabat, Mohan, Jaharbuks, Serab
Somehow, we turned into a street and found ourselves in Old Dacca, where we clearly didn’t belong.
There was a time when I was in the odd clarity of pre-pubescence , when the world opened up. It finally occurred to me that I had agency to think and question in a new way. Before then, it seemed that life just was. Somehow, the world began when I was born, and there was no choice—existence, family, school, travels, good or bad times. You just dealt with it. We were nothing special—a young post-war family getting by on a junior faculty salary, three girls in the gabled upper floor of a little Cape Cod style house on an upaved street on the edge of town, sewing clothes and economizing on groceries.
Some of the things from that time: In sixth grade, I learned about the vastness of the universe, and was humbled trying to imagine its immensity and my insignificance. Also, “it ain’t necessarily so”–the lessons in the Sunday school lessons where my parents dutifully sent me (though they were not church-goers) did not have to be taken literally. Books were not always right. I could choose to actively dislike school, not just accept it. I threw my mother’s cigarettes in the trash.
Naturally, there was more to come. The summer after sixth grade, my family—mother, father, the three daughters–left East Lansing because my father got a two-year job as an agricultural advisor in East Pakistan. That was fine with me. I was not looking forward to what I thought Junior High would be. Living outside the US wouldn’t be entirely new—we had done that when I was in second and third grade, a quarter of my lifetime ago. But this experience would be very different.
Calcutta (now Kolkata), India, was our last stopover before East Pakistan. As we drove in from the airport, we passed a hodgepodge of small shacks, covered with dark splotches of patties with handprints in the middle—cow dung slapped up on the walls, maybe to dry for fuel or reinforce the structure, I didn’t know. In contrast, our downtown hotel was a big, whitewashed colonial-style building with a garden atrium. When we ventured out to explore the streets, we found markets crowded with shops full of brass lanterns, wooden carvings, textiles, foods, people, the odd cow. The narrow alleys had cardboard boxes and bits of wood slapped together next to the walls—what were they? People’s makeshift shelters. I understood that in the mornings, the streets would be cleared of those who had died in the night.
The following day, we made the final leg of our journey from the big city to the more humble Dacca (now Dhaka) East Pakistan, in a little prop plane puddle-jumper with the body tucked below the wings, operated by Pakistan International Airlines (PIA). We lurched wildly throughout the short flight, bouncing through shifting monsoon clouds, with brief glimpses of green fields, water, and villages below. It was said that East and West Pakistan, which were geographically and ethnically separated on either side of India, were held together only by PIA and the Muslim religion—literally a wing and a prayer. Of course, that wasn’t enough–in 1972 East Pakistan became Bangladesh in a disastrous war. And earlier, in 1947 when the subcontinent gained independence from Britain, the war of partition between India and Pakistan had also been unbelievably bloody, with millions of deaths and refugees. That aftermath still lingered when we arrived in 1962.
Our new home in Dacca was in the Dahnmondi neighborhood, on the outskirts. It was comfortable, with air conditioning in the bedroom, plumbing, a fenced yard, a verandah. As was the norm, there were servants (Kabat–the bearer, Mohan—the gardener, Jaharabuks–the cook, Serab– the sweeper, ) who stayed in the back quarters, visiting families in their villages from time to time. Outside the house, the streets still had open sewers prone to overflow in monsoon season, and nearby there was a large “tank” artificial lake for every possible purpose. Cows and goats were tethered along the sides of roads, where people also sat under umbrellas on piles of bricks, which they hammered into coarse gravel.
The city had beggars, something new to me. They would be found at usual spots, such as the railroad crossing on the way into town where hawkers would come up to the stopped cars, and beggars would ask for “baksheesh”, alms. Outside of Newmarket, the young boys would rush and jostle to be the one chosen as the “chokidar” (guard) for the car while we went inside the protected shopping compound, in exchange for some unspecified donation on our return. The entryway to the market was lined with beggars, mostly thin and pathetic women in saris with miserable children, hands outstretched, pleading for “baksheesh, memsahib, baksheesh”. As anyone who has been panhandled knows, it is not comfortable to have people imploring you for money, which is never enough. You may feel pity, annoyance, compassion, or guilt; you may try to rationalize giving or not giving; you may criticize, blame, or learn to look away while hurting inside.
But there was one day that made a particular impression on me. I was out shopping with my mother and sister in downtown Dacca. We were in “New Dacca”, a city center with an eclectic mix of institutional buildings, parks, and businesses patrolled by police. It was next to the crowded warrens of “Old Dacca”, which was jammed with houses, people, and tiny shops, with no broad boulevards or upscale businesses. Somehow, we turned into a street and found ourselves in Old Dacca, where we clearly didn’t belong. Did my mother give some coin to someone on the street, and that started the rush, or were we just rushed because we were an unexpected possible source of alms? Either way, we found ourselves pressed upon by a crowd of people, mostly women I think, all clamoring for baksheesh—not the usual beggars in designated places. We could hardly move, and it seemed everyone on the street came running to surround and push on us. Somehow my mother grabbed us and managed to break free, escaping around the street corner back into the New Dacca section. We were all shaken by the press of people, the intensity of the demands, the pleas, and the clarity on how much we represented people who had things.
At first I didn’t understand—why pick on us? We were Americans, we hadn’t colonized the subcontinent, we were there because my father had work, we weren’t rich. But that didn’t matter, because in fact we were rich and part of a larger global inequality. Back home, I had thought we were pretty humble, but in East Pakistan I realized we had everything both at home and abroad—a house, food, clothes, education, ability to travel. The inequality was stunning, as I was starting to better understand. It was not a solution to give away everything I had, which would never be enough anyway. And yet, I had to live responsibly with the knowledge I had. So, what choices should I make? How does one find meaning and justify a life? These questions were planted firmly at age twelve, and even if they have not always been well-answered, they have never been forgotten.
Khati Hendry
What an amazing and enlightening story, Khati. Your descriptive language evoked a clear picture of what it is to be a have or a have-not. Thanks for sharing this unique experience.
It was not easy to write, and there is more, but thanks for the kind words.
Your description is so vivid that I could see it through your eyes, Khati. And, indeed, you knowledge of inequality became ingrained then and there and has informed your life.
Like so many things, once you become aware of something, you see it everywhere. And there is always so much more to see.
How indeed?
Thanx Khati for sharing another interesting, pertinent and beautifully written story from your well-travelled life.
Yes, the existential questions that we may come to terms with, but may never solve.
Khati, this is a fascinating and beautifully-written story. So different from anything I have ever experienced. You say there is more, and I would love to know as much as you are willing to share. Perhaps on another prompt? Or another story on this one? Or at our next reunion.
Of course there is always more— experiences of privilege traveling around India and Pakistan in the shadow of colonialism, the time we took a train ride to Puri with no first class availability. Maybe not cases of people pressing on you but still with stark contrasts. Moving to DC white suburbs where the only black faces were domestics waiting for the bus to ferry them back to the city. Canvassing the South End in Boston for the tenants union, and returning to Harvard Square and Brattle Street houses. Etc etc. Maybe more in future prompts and reunion 🙂
Very moving story, Khati, and what you saw has stuck with you for life. I have not traveled to areas as poor as you describe, but when I went to visit my brother in the Peace Corps in Costa Rica (a middle income developing country), the contrast between my life at home and the village where he worked was stark. When I got home to my studio apartment, I couldn’t believe how much “stuff” I possessed. Thank you for this very important reminder.
Marian, I had a similar experience on returning to San Francisco after living on the California Mexico border while working for the UFW—it was stunning how much a poor student sharing space with roommates had compared to what I had recently come from. A lesson that seems to be something we have to re-learn. I think COVID has helped show some people what is really important too.
An amazing story of an epiphany in your life!
Amazing story, Khati, and beautifully told. Even the asides are delightful (the “a wing and a prayer” anecdote). And a very moving story on learning of inequality in the world and just how enormous and terrible it is. Yet how do we best react to it?
In fact, I have a very similar story. When I, too, was twelve, my family took an extended European vacation, starting with a fancy American ocean liner (the Constitution, as I recall) to Italy. En route, we stopped for one day in Casablanca. On our tour, the guide casually walked us through the casbah (literally, the old part of the city). Never had I seen such poverty, such illness, such physical deformity. It has haunted me to this day.
Thanks John, and you understand well from your own experience. A good reason for people to get outside their usual cocoon, especially when young with open minds. They said travel was educational, and I didn’t understand it at the time—not the education you learn in classrooms but possibly the most important stuff.
Thanks for this Khati. You’ve expressed much complex but universal thoughts and emotions, I supposed all falling under the notion of discovery. I loved your personal beginning, your description of early awareness — and the lack of it. That prepubescent clarity, grokking the infinity of the universe!! So recognizable! Your setting description was equally intriguing, great impressionistic choices representing the grand sweep of first impressions in a forward land — hand-slapped cow pies! Possibly drying to be used on cooking fires. Then the wrong turn scene, so vivid! I also noticed that your narrative voice shifted there, almost assuming the voice of an adolescent child, trapped in that tragic horror. And beautiful reflections. Beautiful thoughts, description, analysis, andfluid writing throughout. Thanks!
Sometimes I have thought my life was a journey to get enough perspective to understand everything, and it turns out that is pretty ambitious. I’m glad the descriptions of those twelve year-old experiences resonated. The things we remember may not be just random, and writing them down sometimes helps to understand them better.
All good, Khati. Here’s one writing rationale that I’ve loved: “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” – Flannery O’Connor
Pretty cool, huh?
That makes so much sense. On the other hand, one of my favorites from an old cartoon: “Writing is nature’s way of showing you how muddled your thoughts are.”
As usual, Khati, your writing is so evocative. Although our experiences were worlds apart, I remember that same odd clarity, an exact moment actually. Now I wonder if it had something to do with an introduction to astronomy in the sixth grade. I also remember being very aware that I was one of the “haves” and frequently wondered why I was so fortunate to have been born into such privileged circumstances. I still wonder. Thanks for another memorable story.
Thanks, Barbara. Young people are the hope. And we hope we don’t forget what we saw and felt then.
What clarity, Khati. So moving and revealing. And so, so right.
Funny how time reveals what lasts.
I like the way your very cogent and engaging essay devolves into a question, or a meditation. Yes, a situation to be recognized and grappled with. What a dream to think we could solve even a part of it! (I guess that was the dream of socialism, communism, and perhaps some other isms. But most of those dreams have busted on the rocky shores of realpolitic and global capitalism.)
It would be nice to have a satisfactory answer to such questions, but you are right—so many answers turn out to be dreams. The remarkable thing is that we persist in trying to find them, broken dreams and all.