& çâÌæÚUæð´ ·¤è ¥ôÚU Îð¹Ùæ ÁæÚUè ÚU¹ð´ ¥ÍæüÌ ¥ÂÙð ÜÿØ ÂÚU ŠØæÙ ÚU¹ð´Ð ãæÚU Ù ×æÙð´, €UØô´ç·¤ ·¤æ× ·¤ÚUÙð âð ¥æÂ·¤ô ©gðàØ ·¤è Âýæç# ãôÌè ãñ ¥õÚU ÁèßÙ ·¤æ ¹æÜèÂÙ ÎêÚU ãôÌæ ãñÐ ÖÜð ãè ÁèßÙ ×ð´ ç·¤ÌÙè Öè ·¤çÆÙæ§ü €UØô´ Ù ¥æ°, çÁ™ææâæ ¥õÚU ©ˆâæã ÕÙæ° ÚU¹ð´Ð ŠØæÙ ÚU¹ð´, ÜÿØ ã×ðàææ ¥æÂ·Ô¤ Âæâ ãôÌð ãñ´ çÁ‹ãð´ ÂæÙð ·Ô¤ çÜ° ÂýØæâ ¥æÂ ·¤Öè Öè àæéM¤ ·¤ÚU â·¤Ìð ãñ´Ð

The day I officially started smoking

And I join them too, in laughing. I say my good byes after watching Munni Shaha's report in television. On my way home I stop by the cigarette stand and buy my first pack of cigarettes.

Iffat Nawaz
SPRING officially hit Dhaka only 12 days ago. I felt it this morning upon waking up, alone in my flat at the side of Dhaka where life seems to be unaffected by most of Dhaka's balanced chaos. Baridhara, Gulshan, Banani - - the bubble within the bubble.
Living here alone in Dhaka, without a mother, maid or morning paper I feel the height of isolation that I chose for myself. It has not at all been bad living this way. I pick up the phone to confirm the first meeting of the day with a high profile media figure. He picks up my phone and tells me to not leave the house, Dhaka is not safe he says, and without any explanation hangs up.
To understand his worries I pick up
the phone to dial a few more numbers. It was 10:35am then. Through phone calls and online news I hear "thousands of rounds of gunshots and mortar firing are rocking the BDR Headquarters and adjacent areas in Dhaka as "angry and aggrieved' BDR soldiers launched a violent and armed mutiny against their high command from around 7:45am."
The smses start arriving: "Don't leave the house." "Watch the news." "Dhaka is under attack" And I can't figure out what I need to do with these information. I don't own a television so I frantically keep refreshing online news and blog sources.
Rumours of curfew start to spread, different status on friend's profiles on Facebook, some with worries and some already criticising the current govern-
ment. Ex-pat friends concerned. Bangladeshi friends telling the ex-pats: "See what we live in, and you want to move back here?" Thousands of words crowd my eyes, and I feel like crying.
The bazaar next to my house still keeps making its due noises. I feel
lonely, I think of times when sitting in Washington DC I heard of Dhaka's unrest and just felt sorry and moved on. But now I was in it, not directly but even in my own safety bubble I was still in it.
I go through my "to call in case of emergency list" and I realise there is no
one there, really, who I can call who will run to my rescue. I feel like breaking down, my paranoid mind makes me run to the bazaar to pick up bottled water and other essentials.
At the bazaar, people watch television intently. I stand with them to see the same clip? playipgpYer^ox^x ^g^in,,. The crowd in the road seem much thinner than usual, all of Dhaka starts returning home around 1pm. People in the streets tell me mobile phones might be shut down and I realise I don't have a land phone. I see bloody bodies, angry BDR faces on the screen.
At a lavish Gulshan restaurant, chomping on mediocre lunch buffet, a young successful businessman tells his wife: "They planned this whole thing so they can have tomorrow off, so it can be a long weekend."
His adventurous, beautiful wife says:" I want to see this drama, let's take a drive to Dhanmondi and check it out."
But instead they go home to take an afternoon nap. They will wake up to Costa Rican coffee and English toffee.
I come home from the bazaar call up my relatives in the US and unexpectedly
break down. I cry my heart out, I feel lonely again, unsafe, insecure. I think of why I came here, my work, how much it means to me, I tell myself I am exaggerating because 1 have never been in a situation like this, but I still can't calm myself down.
^9.1 out to Jh? 4HJ, ,
bunch of cha ivalas keep watching the news. They make space for me. They tell me: "Apa bari jaan, ban giya TV dekhen, apnara to borolok, ey khane thaiken na."
Yet somehow they help me fit in. And then a tire bursts on the street and everyone scatters and runs for their lives and a few seconds later realising what happened breaks into contagious laughter.
And I join them too, in laughing. I say my good byes after watching Munni Shaha's report in television. On my way home I stop by the cigarette stand and buy my first pack of cigarettes. And February 25,2009 becomes the first day I officially started smoking and melted into being a part of Dhaka like I never thought I could be.
Iffat Nawaz is Director, DrishtipaL