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Parisian pain and a few red roses

Nazia Andaleeb Preema
Sitting at the Gafe Brasila, near my hotel in the heart of the city of Paris, having double espresso is a privilege. I have been coming to Paris for the last four years now. Summer is supposed to be the best time to be in Europe but this no longer feels like proper summer. With global warming, nothing is predictable anymore. But never the less, these places never cease to excite me.
Sitting at the cafe I can see the Academie Nationale de Musique very clearly. This is a huge traditional French building with the European decorative architecture - a vision in turquoise blue and gold. In Paris, it is only natural to look at museum and galleries while you enjoy a cup of coffee and soak up the Parisian lifestyle around you. It is a civilisation that boasts of high art and culture. It is hard to tell who are the original Parisians though, as the city has become relatively more cosmopolitan than ever before. Even Indians learnt how to be “French" thanks to globalisation.
This is mid summer, but one has to wait at least half an hour to see a glimpse of the soft sun and enjoy its warmth. /Ml the French balconies wait to shower in the
sunshine, which looks warm and golden but feels cool -- absolutely unlike the hot mid summer we know. Everyone looks chic here - people walking with their beloveds, hand in hand; housemates; pets; and with big, branded, cheerful shopping bags.
Last evening I was sitting on the top of the Montmartre (a hill) which is 130 metres high and is a common touristy place. Many artists had studios or worked around the community of Montmartre, such as Salvador Dali, Amedeo Modigliani, Claude Monet, Piet Mondrian, Pablo Picasso and Vincent van Gogh. I love the atmosphere as I can see the whole Paris from this spot. Few young guys were selling souvenirs, soft drinks, red roses and bottled water. As soon as they heard me talking in Bangla with my friend, they understood that I am from Bangladesh. When I come across Bangladeshis with odd jobs outside the country, they often deliberately ignore me or try to avoid me. This young man, probably 28/29, was different. I Ie talked to me with a very warm smile and was describing how difficult it has been for him to survive here.
He came to Paris when he was 16 and now he is 29. For him it has been a tough 13 years. I can easily imag-
ine what he might have gone through, as despite having the highest degree from a university and traveling all over the world, not knowing French in France is a handicap. He was sweating profusely as he climbed up and down all the stairs of the historic Montmartre all day long to sell his red roses to the visiting couples but made very little money.
From the top level of the monument one can see the whole Paris but this man, with his hope of sending some money to his destitute family back home in Bangladesh, was an unsettling sight. I wished I could buy all his flowers but immediately stopped indulging my sympathy. My sympathy won't help him much, maybe for that evening. So I picked one and after much insistence he agreed to take 2 Euros. As I was a “deshi bon”, he did not want me to pay at all.
Even now, as I'm sitting in this posh cafe, I'm thinking of that tender soft dark face, with a tired smile. I missed my Bangladesh. I want this young man to be back home, to serve Bangladesh with dignity, and not toil like a slave in a place that may not have any love for him.
The writer is a visual artist.