Tree Without Roots*

Dhaka frightened you. Dhaka
Where I feel at home. The raw daylight,
The sun beaten faces, the sharp
Corrupt edges to everything, frightened you.

Your schooling had somehow neglected Bangladesh.
The martyrs of 1952, of 1971 and the floods
You could not appreciate the language,
Your soul was empty
Of the rustic Bauls, the rickshaw bells, and the hartals
Made your heart shrivel. Nazrul could not invoke
A blood rush, awake the rebel in you. Zainul
Held out a famine struck lean hand and you took it
Bluntly, indifferent to human feelings.

You did not criticise but you pitied
The endless beggars tapping your window,
You sniffed the history books like a condescending foreigner
Hoping to recognise your roots but somehow recoiled
As your love for the West asphyxiated you,
And your panic clutched back towards your Exeter days.

You came visiting every summer and the odd winter
Assumed yourself as a tourist, armed with mineral water,
Mosquito repellent, beach shorts and funky flip-flops
Watching with bewildered eyes and behaving awkwardly
At the butchered traditions, that somehow still held.
With the occasional stab to impress your pink tongue
You tried your luck, relishing on digestive tablets,
With the street savouries: haleem, futchka, chotpoti
And I saw you vomiting with food poisoning.

Dhaka, the city of mosques and shrines
Had offered you more than the customary rituals
But you did not hesitate to puncture the spiritual mystic
Seeing only religious bigotry and fanaticism
And the sound of Azaan
Was what annoyed you more than five times a day.

You told me this was the land of your dreams:
But the Kaal Boishakhi was one
You dared not wake with, the incandescent spirit
No literature, no creative writing course had glamorised.
Perhaps this land is your nightmare, or perhaps,
Your wet dream, you did not realise
Monsoon had long spoilt your crisp bed.

Dhaka was what you tried to wake up from
And could not. You have been sleeping
Ever since; you knew you could afford
The luxury of distancing yourself from you.
You preferred to break out of your lineage
And have your real self still to be found.

Yours is a hapless soul, not understanding
Thinking it is still your prerogative
To remain in the happy world,
With your whole life waiting,
As a tree without roots.

*inspired by You Hated Spain by Ted Hughes