Why a piece of my heart has been left in this unvisited corner of the world.

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Heat like this must only exist in far corners of the world so that you are reminded that you are not in a dream. The alley I was following grew darker and more humid by the minute. Beside me and in between strides, I caught the stares. This was something I was beginning to surrender to. Still, as the exposed bulbs flickered and I walked trepidatiously into the unknown, the stares seemed to me a safety. Finally, the fruit salesman stopped in front of a small, stuffed storefront. Fadilla, a short man of about 50, grinned at me in a way that convinced both himself and me of the legitimacy of this kiosk. His weathered face and gnarled hands had only recently become acquainted with my own. He had dirt under his nails and the smell of just-ripe fruit and cheap cigarettes. His smile, which he generously applied for every circumstance, was gapped in places. He wore sandals that seemed to be ubiquitous in this town. With feet thick with callouses that compensated for the parts unbound by leather, he swayed from leg to leg. I stood in front of the shop and took in its ramshackle appearance. Computers from generations past gave way to cords that had no end. Cell phone batteries were in cardboard boxes, and crates of miscellaneous parts stacked precariously against the wall. Three men sat and squatted in a space of only a few square meters. Shoulder to shoulder with their industry, it seemed a small representation of the truth I was beginning to understand about Bangladesh.

A week had passed since I landed on the tarmac of Dhaka. The capital is home to 21 million and hosted me for a few nights. Weaving through the traffic to the apartment, not 10 km away, took over an hour. Bodies were everywhere; not a corner of the road was left unused, and not a seat in any vehicle unoccupied. Legs and shoulders merged, and saris and hijabs swirled to make a new entity entirely—the beating heart of the city. Dhaka is not a pretty city. Its limb-like highways slice apart the neighborhoods. The roads fill the ground, and everywhere there is movement. The buildings populate the skyline with harsh grey cement. It is at once suffocating and immersive. However, the people are the organism that gives Dhaka all its color. As if fully aware that their city is a byproduct of necessity, the population brings to life each square foot of that beastly metropolis. They fill it with the smells of fresh spices and deep pots of spiced chai. The music they bring reaches every corner and deepest nook. The bright colors of rickshaws and salwars make each street a striking kaleidoscope. There are smiles and rounded shoulders that lift with each joke or bartering dialogue. There is bright lighting illuminating the lives of millions of souls, all of whom live shoulder to shoulder as if the city were the little electronics kiosk in the dark alley.

Fadilla was rattling off in Bangla. His words filled my ears as my eyes adjusted to the light and chaos of the shop. I began to explain that I was looking for an adapter for my charger. The man squatting in the middle began ruffling through the bottom layer of boxes. A small interest had been piqued by the neighboring storekeepers. So the pantomime and translation show began.
I had known Fadilla for a short while before this circus act. Our contrasting hands shook, and from that instant, I was his charge. First, we had tea. As I was learning, all good things come from a cup of milky sweet chai. The parlor we sat in was sectioned off for my modesty as Fadilla told me of his family—a son in the Gulf States and a wife long dead. His eyes showed sorrow, but the smile, which revealed more, was that of intentional perseverance.

I had arrived in Sreemangal craving respite from the city. In the small tea-based region north of Dhaka, I found a community that welcomed me in. Before I had sat down for dinner at the London Cafeteria, Fadilla had been called. My waiter alerted me that I was to meet “a very good man.” I finished a plate of spicy biryani, washed with the men at the back sink, and paid. Fadilla appeared as if waiting for the check to be settled. At this point, I had traveled by myself across many parts of the world, and my instinct was to be cautious around new places and, more specifically, new people—especially people who walked up to me and asked if I was the girl from Canada. But Fadilla, with his honest face and open demeanor, won me over within seconds.

He guided me expertly through the sweet shops and grill joints of bustling Sreemangal. He refused my offers to pay and swatted away my wallet with a rehearsed shrug. He listened to my love of Dhaka in good humor. I listened to his stories of the last foreigner—a German girl from 12 months earlier. The night wore on, and I mentioned I needed a charging cord. This prompted the mad weave through the alleys and traffic gaps to his brother’s shop.

Not for a moment did I have any fear as he wove me farther and farther away from my hotel, the realm of imagined safety. In fact, the nature of Bangladesh was so conducive to releasing inhibitions that I rarely recognized myself in it. Days earlier, on a corner of a Dhaka suburb, I was sharing mint lemonade with a new friend. Nas, with her thick black hair and kohl-lined eyes, had taken me under her wing. Acting as a big sister with a just cause, she wove me through the kebab shops and dining spots of Jamuna. Her thick brows knit with worry over my sweat-slicked forehead. Sweetly calling me darling, she would light a cigarette between expertly painted nails. Nas was never caught off guard and always dressed to the nines. She acted as my gateway to the young side of Dhaka.

Sharing the cool mint drink, she asked if I’d like a walk. We picked up the obligatory cigarettes and caught a rickshaw to a building development. Pitch black and still damp with heat, the night unfolded as we wandered through construction sites and unfinished buildings. The tang of tobacco was not nearly as sweet as the conversation. The deep eyes of good company created this blanket of assurance. Despite being in the middle of nowhere in the bustling city, late into the evening, there could be no more enviable place. Nas, with her demanding stature and gentle way, is the reason I could be blindly led by Fadilla.

The squatting man had rustled about for a few minutes before producing the adapter. Fadilla discussed with his brother a fair price. The dance of haggling could be internationally understood despite my ignorance of Bangla. With a short goodbye and a return through the maze of bodies and shops, I was deposited at the corner where I had been found two hours earlier. A passerby was engaged to take a photo of Fadilla and me. Standing shoulder to shoulder, mine stood an inch or so above the small fruit seller. Numbers were exchanged, and his grin grew wider than I had known it before.

The faces of concern I received before and after visiting Bangladesh were based in fear. But those around me knew nothing of the girls who drew their names on scraps of paper for me to hold. The fears of friends could not fathom the tea shared with a group of sailors at the notorious Old Dhaka port. The apprehensions of the West would not allow the chats held on the steps of a temple to exist without trepidation. Worst of all, if I had bought into that fear, would Fadilla and I have shared chai upon chai? Would Nas and I have giggled like schoolgirls as we shopped for jeans? The beauty of the country, and why a piece of my heart still lies there, is the people. They are disarming yet gentle and full of innate goodness. If ever you have the chance to visit Bangladesh, open your heart to it. Release yourself into the cups of tea and stories well shared, and you will know what I know now—the beauty of the country is in the people.