"For all the ‘backward’ thinking, my parents definitely did one thing right - they always pushed for the education of all their kids, which was very rare for Bangladeshi females when I was growing up..."

Growing up, Bangladesh was always seen as a mythical, wonderful land in the eyes of my parents. It was almost constantly mentioned in discussions at home, but the photos on the wall were the only way I knew it was real. I looked for a connection with those faces, but was left searching - they were strangers to me.

Satisfying a never ending need

As a child I was the chubby one who couldn’t walk properly and apparently suffered such a huge incident of food going down the wrong way, referred to as Biyoon in Bengali, that I stopped breathing for so long that my parents thought it may be fatal. Whether it was a gross over exaggeration or not, I’m not sure. But hearing incidents such as these sometimes made me feel as though I was the most troublesome child. My memories of my childhood are clouded by Bangladesh. Clouded as all I could understand was that my parent’s family in Bangladesh had a need that seemed never to be satisfied. My father worked all the hours he could, and yet that was never enough. These experiences have perhaps shaped some of my feelings during my earlier years towards a place where I was born, but had no memories of - except perhaps a made up memory of playing with little chicks (which I may have overheard my mother telling someone).

The 'model' bangladeshi daughter

Baba (father in Bengali) was an economic ‘immigrant’ in the UK in his younger years, flying back and forth when he had the means to do so. But one day in 1977, he came back to Bangladesh and collected my mum, brother, and me and took us with him for good. I was just three years old or so, and although we left Bangladesh then, Bangladesh did not leave our family. In my later years, I had to model my behaviour on how Bangladeshi girls behaved back home - obedient, silent and good at doing household chores, a typical story of most Bangladeshi households of my generation growing up in the 70 and 80s. I could never compete with the mythical female family strangers back home. So, what am I trying to say? I think I’m trying to say that Bangladesh prevailed in every aspect of my life, even though I did not visit the ‘motherland’ until I finished my first degree. I think people in the community saw me as a typical Bangladeshi girl, so obedient and good - I was the Bangladeshi girl my mother always wanted.

my quiet rebellion

However, for all the ‘backward’ thinking, my parents definitely did one thing right - they always pushed for the education of all their kids, which was very rare for Bangladeshi females when I was growing up. Education was the only way to progress, the only way to make something. My father longed for me to be a scientist or a medic like my older brother, but sciences was not my thing, arts was and so I chose my own path, with little support, rebelling to the stage of changing a GCSE option to Drama. I’m quite a reserved person but I always came alive in drama classes. I chose a degree I would enjoy, but lacked the confidence to go to one of the University of London colleges that had accepted me – I knew someone there who said if I went there my mum would find out what they were up to at Uni. This remark tipped me over and so I rejected them. Sounds ridiculous, but it’s something that’s stayed with me all these years and I guess I’ve learnt to live with it. Anyway, I went to uni, I got a 2:1 and then I even went on to do a Masters. Things always happen for a reason. I'm not one who usually blows her own trumpet - but I was quite proud to be put on a waiting list for LSE.

'homecoming'

We finally went back to Desh (what Bengalis of Bangladesh, North Eastern States of India, and West Bengal refer to as ‘back home’) in 1995, all 7 of us! My little brother covered his perspective on our first trip to Bangladesh and it’s clear we had different takes on it. Was I excited about the trip? I’m not sure I was – I was definitely anxious as I remember being a very anxious person during those years of my life. I remember buying essentials for our journey, such as wet wipes - things you would get without thinking now - but being laughed at by my siblings at the time. I can gladly tell you that they were grateful for those wet wipes that first day in Bangladesh. I remember Dhaka being hot and sticky – the hotel we stayed in, which was a shock to the system, and the feeling of dread of “was it all going to be like this? Hot and sticky and not as clean as we were used to in London.” The new family as well – what a shock to see the faces I only saw in photos. As I’ve already said, I’m instinctively a shy person, I lack confidence, so the fear of having to communicate with people I did not know was intense, and speaking in a language I was not comfortable in made it worse! We did not sleep that first night in the hotel, I don’t think.

The next day we set off in a Toyota Liteace, the quintessential mode of travel in 1995 to get to the Bari (village in Bengali), which was apparently a six-hour drive away. I remember there being so many rivers, so many people, getting onto a ferry with the back of the Liteace hanging so perilously close to the edge! Chaos and disorder but very green, the light of the place so different to London. Getting to the Bari, I felt anxiety and was overwhelmed by the swollen Manu river that ran along the back of it, more strange faces waiting for us to descend and lots of tears – those are the first memories of meeting the family my parents left behind to come to London.

Baba took Thakurbhai’s (paternal grandfather) ashes with him to be immersed. I remember my Father thinking about going to India to immerse them in the main branch of the Ganga (Ganges) but someone talked him out of it. That is a trend that resonates through my childhood and formative years, my parents, myself; attempts at being talked out of things – that courage being sapped away, settling instead for something simpler. Luckily, it didn’t always work and I feel my family has set new precedents in a number of areas in our past. We were only there for three weeks and we met so many people during that time, with so much rain and then sudden intense heat, as it was July. I remember not being allowed to go and sit by the Manu river as it was “not the right thing to do for girls”, which was so disappointing because I will always remember the sense of peace I got from just standing looking at the river, a sense of peace I still look for, many years later when I returned recently. I still regret not getting that chance to do so.

So on balance, my first trip to Bangladesh was an eye-opening experience for me, and I found a country that was green and warm, but chaotic and alien. It was quite surreal, for all the education I had achieved up to that point, I was ‘illiterate’ in that country as I never learnt to read and write in my mother tongue. It was only when we were back on the Tube after we landed at Heathrow and on our way home, surrounded by endless miles of concrete, that I missed the green of the country I had left behind.

ever increasing responsibility

I have returned to Bangladesh four times since that first visit in 1995. The second time as a married woman, with yet more responsibilities and relationships to nurture. Bangladesh became bigger on those visits – Dhaka, Narsingdhi, Brahmanbaria, Habiganj. Dhaka is steeped in history in its chaotic roads, the Parliament building, Curzon hall. I experienced Durga Puja in Bangladesh for the first time, and was so proud to be part of it. Our Puja was lovely and warm and full of colour and we danced till late. Bengali Hindus are very much alive in Desh, following their religion proudly, but it’s a shame there’s some much division between community bubbles; but perhaps it was meant to be that way.

setting precedents

The last time I returned was in 2015 - following his solo trip the year before, my younger brother Amit organised a trip to Bangladesh for my parents, and invited me along. I jumped at the opportunity which saw me return once again to Desh to witness Durga Puja, but for the first time in Baba’s Bari. My younger sister Priti and her family joined us too, from Abu Dhabi.

The Bari puja differs greatly from those held in the towns and of course to those held in the UK. It’s a Puja you fully immerse yourself into in participation and activity. You’re not just dressed in your finest but the feeling of being part of something, I’ve never felt that in any other Durga Puja. My rebellious streak came back when I bravely stepped forward to do the dhunachi dance during aarti with my brothers. No woman has ever danced the dhunachi in my maternal home, but I felt they may have been equally shocked and in awe that a woman could do that. The best moment was when all of us were dancing, Baba, Maa, my brothers, and me. So glad it was recorded and that it’s up on Facebook. I’m so pleased to see Pujas in the UK now openly encouraging women to take the dhunachi in their hand and dance freely in front of the Goddess and display the power of shakti. I don’t know if I can say I broke that barrier, but I will take credit for it anyway.

Have those subsequent trips to Bangladesh changed my viewpoint of that once mythical place - a place that keeps demanding? Perhaps, ever so slightly, but I don’t blame the country for its demands. Do I want to go back – yes, but I am a changed woman. I am no longer that obedient Bangladeshi girl, I feel I am now an opinionated woman. So I wonder if I will fit in as I am no longer willing to be moulded. After all, I have intentionally stopped dyeing my hair, much to the horror of many people. Look closely and you’ll see there are a lot of women who no longer want to be defined by their appearance, but instead by the person that they are. Perhaps when you’re next at an event held by your community bubble, maybe if you stop and listen and ask some questions you may find an interesting person who has been hiding herself. Bangladesh has progressed quite rapidly, culturally and in-terms of equality, there remains issues but I feel it may have progressed further than some community bubbles in the UK. But I haven’t lost faith.

stop and pay attention

I’m a postgraduate, mother of two - with a graduate son and a daughter doing A-levels. I run an IT department for a central government department and have a budget of millions to manage. I lead and make decisions and most importantly I’ve overcome that crippling anxiety that has stopped me from reaching my potential and I’ve realised that it’s ok for me to demand things. I can chase my happiness and do what I want to do – dancing to an audience of 400 people when dancing does not come naturally to me. The one thing I left, which I regret, is the writing. Did I tell you I always wanted to be a writer? This may just be the motivation I needed.