Journey

They walk on and on, endlessly. Trudging barefoot through the incessant rain and mud in Anjuman Para, entire families exhausted from days of walking to reach the Bangladesh-Myanmar border had yet more to go before they reached a place to shelter. An old man struggled through the slippery mud with the help of only a stick. An even older woman was carried in a litter like a baby by her two sons. Children holding their sandals and little bundles lag behind the rest of the family.

Home

I returned to my hometown one rainy summer, after almost a decade. Once so familiar, I was discovering it like a new territory. The river Jamuna, which used to be miles away, was at a walking distance now. It has changed the landscape, forced my relatives away, and made us rootless. The photos I took by its bank brought back long lost memories.

Where is my Home

I returned to my hometown one rainy summer, after almost a decade. Once so familiar, I was discovering it like a new territory. The river Jamuna, which used to be miles away, was at a walking distance now. It has changed the landscape, forced my relatives away, and made us rootless. The photos I took by its bank brought back long lost memories.

A Thousand Gardens

Where have the fish in the Buriganga gone? Bubbling with rich, garish tones that can belie the grim reality, the waters of the Furigana, once the lifeblood of the capital, tell our very own tale of woe.

The vibrant eddies and soapy ripples captured in a frame may bring to mind abstract paintings, but this is one time fact triumphs fiction—nothing can survive in the river.
Nestled beside the river is neighborhood of Hazaribagh, Farsi for “the city of a thousand gardens”. In its streets lined with leathers, there is not a glimmer of green to be found, and in its canals that flow into the Buriganga runs the muck of the tanneries that it has housed for over 60 years.

The river has become so slick with the chemicals that are dumped into it at all times of the day that you can see the colors swirl and shift in the water between sunrise and sunset—now an oily black, neon red in the blink of an eye, then turning into an otherworldly blue.

The waters of the Buriganga are too murky, too alkaline, too devoid of oxygen for you take a sip or have a dip, and the borough of Hazaribagh, which once grew green and proud beside it, is now a tragic wasteland.