City of Joy III: What areas are dangerous in Dhaka?

According to Safe City Index 2017, Dhaka is 58th among 60 surveyed cities (Digital Security 58, Health Security 59, Personal Security 43, Infrastructure Security 60). Chicago is 19th and New York is 21st. Only Yangon and Karachi come after Dhaka.

According to Numbeo, Dhaka is the 24th most crime-ridden city. Chicago is 38th and New York is 153rd. Karachi 47th, and Yangon is not on the list. According to a report in the Independent (UK), Dhaka is the 7th most dangerous megacity for women.

The 141 spots identified by Dhaka Metropolitan Police as the most dangerous are:

Maghbazaar-Motijheel: New Eskaton Road, Eskaton Garden Road, Dilu Road, Kakrail intersection, the area of ​​fisheries, the university area and the Doel Square. Dilkusha, Balaka Square, Dainik Bangla intersection, the Dhaka Stock Exchange area, Kamalapur Railway Station area, Fakirapul, Railway Hospital Road, Pirjangi Mazar, Shantinagar intersection, Notre Dame College Gate, Lane Fakirapul Gorom Panir Goli, Rajarbag in front of the telecom building, Ittefaq crossing , Nayapaltan Dgashani Goli, Purana Paltan Mallik Plaza in front of Notre Dame.

Uttara: Some roads in sectors 11 and 13 , Abdullahpur, House Building, Jasimuddin Road, airport and railway station areas.

Khilgaon-Rampura-Badda: Goran, Malibag, Chowdhury, Khilgaon Sohrab, Pallima Sangsad area, Bhuiyanpara Balur Maath, Rampura Bridge, TV Road, Merul Badda Market, North Badda Police Station Road, South Badda, Kuril Bishwa Road, Aftabnagar Iron Bridge, Central Badda Bepari Goli, Bazar Goli, East Badda Link Road and Graveyard Road.

Jatrabari-Kadamtali-shyampur: Bibi Gardens, Kutubkhali, North Jatrabarhi Kolapotti, Dayaganj intersection, Kazla fringe, Sayedabad Bus Terminal, Janapad Road, Dhalpur Citypolli, Jatrabari Graveyeard Road , near Jatrabari fish warehouse, Maniknagar, Mir Hazaribag Ghantighar, Jurain Balur Maath, Kudar Market, Medical Road, Kadamtali Wasa Road, Shyampur incline.

Gulshan-Banani: Gulshan lakeside, Niketan in front of Shooting Club, Kakali intersection, Banani kitchen market road, Korail slum, Banani flyover, the club and the soldier Chairmanbari area.

Dhanmondi-Mohammadpur: Dhanmondi 8 bridge, Jigatala bus stand, Kalabagan playground, Circular Road (Bhooter Goli), Mirpur Road, Asad Avenue, Aurangzeb Road, Kantasur, Bansgari, Mohammadpur Embankment, Dhaka Residential College area, Adabar road 14, Baitul Aman, Ring Road and Hazaribagh Embankment.

Mohakhali-Tejgaon: Mohakhali Bus Stand, in front of Kacha Bazaar, Tibet intersection, North Begunbari, Hatirjhil, Moghbazar intersection, in front of Malibagh Super Market, Karwan Bazar, grinaroda, Indira Road adjacent to the alley behind T&T office.

Mirpur: Mirpur Embankment from Shah Ali intersection to Dhaur, Mirpur 1 Circle, Mirpur 12 bus stand, south Manipur, Bauniya Bund, Bihari Colony, Agargaon intersection, in front of IDB building, Kalyanpur Housing Estate area, the road in front of Banglabandhu International Conference Centre, Agargaon crossing, Agricultural University area, Darus Salam, Mazar Road.

Old Dhaka: Chan Khar Pool, Tanti Bazaar, Shakhari Bazaar, Nimtali, Sadarghat, Babu Bazar, Kazi Riaz Uddin Road, Dholai Khal, Shahid Nagar and Kamrangir Char.

City of Joy II: How has Dhaka changed since 2008?

Dhaka is the fastest growing megapolis in the world, growing to become one of the top cities in the world in terms of size.

Two things about dhaka have increased dramatically in the last 8/9 years - wealth and population.

Dhaka, already the wealthiest settlement in Bangladesh, has received so much private sector attention and state facilitation that economic growth of Dhaka constantly remained the same till mid 2000s. It now grows even faster, and despite policies and state investment into outer regions increased dramatically in the last decade, Dhaka has maintains the same wealth ratio against rest of Bangladesh.

You would notice wealth everywhere - new movie theaters, shopping malls, car showrooms, spas and salons, hotels, restaurants and cafes, beautified city, beggar free zones (in fact beggars are now a vanishing breed, who appear in Ramadan to supplement whatever income they have in villages), resorts and clubs, amusement, imported brands, luxury apartment blocks, gated communities, school and university campuses… the list is endless.

There have been hundreds of them coming up since 2008, changing old neighborhoods and the cityscape forever. Many of the dilapidated blocks in the old town now features glass fronted banks and shops, shopping malls and superstores, as well as brand shops of the luxury kind. Many quint little parts of the city (like northern parts of Uttara, western parts of Mirpur etc.) are now busy hubspots with tall modern buildings. Many more 1–3 story buildings have been replaced with 10–12 story buildings, and as a result some of the more tightly built neighborhood streets to become narrow urban canyons.

Even cars, of which there are tens of thousands more than 2008, are not just second-hand Toyotas. From Geely cars to Mercedes cars - the choices are endless. Bicycles have come back, motorcycles are everywhere. More streets have banned rickshaws, while electric rickshaws are plying all over the periphery of the city. Black/blue cabs have almost vanished. Yellow cabs are run only by two companies. Uber and car rentals have taken over. And, there are way more flyovers. Home delivery and superstores now covers one third of Dhaka, a 100 times increase in a decade.

With all the wealth visible one would expect poverty to become negligible. It didn’t. Because, millions and millions of climate refugees escaping floods, cyclones, droughts and what not have arrived in Dhaka in the last decade, way more than any time in history. 40% of them live in informal shelters, 80% of them are engaged in informal economic activity. Life is tough for them. But, they still share the general optimism that a flourishing economy brings. Housemaids, once a common feature of every household, and porters, a common feature for almost every public place are dwindling fast in numbers, as neither are consistent with the status they seek.

Informal business is the key. 45% of Dhaka economy is still these micro-enterprises, though the sectors are often different from 2008. Once a ubiquitous feature of every street corner, the common cigarette and candy sellers are becoming increasingly rare, while the once popular modes of transport - the “tempo” or the “hauler” are also vanishing.

This tremendous building boom and population increase has taken toll on the infrastructure. Newer neighborhoods are not getting piped gas, and older neighborhoods are suffering from chronic shortage of water. Safety and security is also lower than before, for four reasons - (a) government affiliated organizations and persons; (b) diverting law enforcement resources to fight terrorism; (c) a corrupt police empowered by extra-judicial power, while the judiciary remains low priority; and (d) extra population that makes governance almost impossible. This has led to a serious decrease in outdoor events like concerts and fairs, as well as serious discouragement of celebrations like international new year and baul festivals.

SHADOWS (Chapter 3): It's hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain

Edvard Munch, The Scream

What shall I do now?  What shall I do?
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
With my hair down, so.
What shall we do tomorrow?
What shall we ever do?
— Wasteland, T.S. Eliot


I found me sitting on a box covered with a dusty and torn carpet still staring at the crystal jar, not seeing anything in particular, as if I was coming back from a nightmare. Or maybe I was waking up into the nightmare. I tried guessing how long I have been lost in thoughts, not a bad place to get lost in. Difficult. Shafts of light that poured in were still burning with the warmth of the sun, dust particles fleeting in a gray mist. The next door cat whined like it always did, a very irritating cat that one. Some heavy vehicle roared down the street that was invisible from here, I judged it to be a truck.

And, then it moved. Oh my bloody sisterlicking brotherblowing motherfucking GOD! It moved.

Unnoticeably, softly, slowly… the head opened its eyes, and stared back at me in a hollow and blank uncomprehending meaningless stare. I knew severed heads were not supposed to open eyes that suddenly, I never heard of that kind of rigor mortis in my life. Mesmerized I kept staring at it. It was a stalemate. I did nothing. The head did nothing. Every motion frozen in time, like so much refrigerated lobsters, two heads, one attached to a body and the other without any such commitment, stayed unblinking with eyes locked. Meeeow – it was that nagging stupid cat that broke the spell. I shifted my gaze to my hands, yes, as I felt there was something I held very tight in a double handed grip. Must have been something I picked up when I sat on the box. It was a girl’s bag in tatters – red and black, leather and hemp, with a braided strap and a bell metal buckle… instantly recognizable.

One thing always unfailingly and invariably leads to another. This time the bag led me to a great crossing. The train of memories passed through the great barrier, and, I remembered her face. Ash’s face. That face was a curious concoction that I would never dare to understand – austere like a tava-baked plain flatbread, handed out off a roadside eatery for truckers, or festive like a bowl of Kachi Akhni, the biriyani coming right of the Nizam’s kitchen sporting 50 varieties of meat – changing shades in an instant, and always inexplicably. Tired eyes that sparkled like the night sky whenever she flashed a smile, full lips that always looked a bit chaffed but never felt so when she kissed, cheeks that never could decide between sinking and blushing – the wonders never ceased. And, she lived in a perpetual twilight of fear. She believed no one. Not even me. Not that she had any reason to believe me in any damn way. It was almost like she lived in my shadow, a shadow that only stunk of death and debauchery. Sweet and sad, she still clung on to me.

It was Ash’s face that was looking back at me from inside the jar.

I felt like I was hit by the train that just made the crossing straight in the face, full blast, wheels cranking, rails screeching, winds hissing past. Boom. I started to scream, a completely involuntary and desperate wail of terror and anguish. I screamed on until blood spurted out of my mouth and my nose. Damn! I surely had ruptured some stuff inside. Blood trickled down the side of my neck. Warm and sticky. I toppled off the box headfirst into the dust. And, I lay there. No strength left in me to stir an inch. Then the head chuckled. No, really, Ash chuckled. She never laughed once in all the years she was with me like she did now. Eerie and sarcastic, not an aorta of humor there.

I lay stiff on the floor waiting for Ash to stop chuckling.

SHADOWS (Chapter 2): There's no one left to blame so never mind the darkness

René Magritte, The Lovers

From the old familiar faces and
Their old familiar ways
To the comfort of the strangers
Slipping out before they say
So long
— Run Baby Run, Sheryl Crow

That’s when I found an interesting fact about memories. They are like those Russian dolls, the big one opens to a smaller one, which opens to an even smaller one, and so on. I kept opening pieces of memory only to find more inside, waiting to be opened in an endless journey taking me further, deeper down the roads long forgotten. That winter noon led me to that crow, and then another that I remembered lying on a roadside, guts spilling out, ants making a feast on half-rotting intestines that already were sporting a sickening shade of teal.

I remembered the mountain goat that my mom kept as a pet bleating at the sight of the crow. Well, a goat will always be a goat, and it followed me on most days on my way to school. So bloody humiliating it seemed at the time. That was before we left the little town that saw me running down my first soccer field, falling off my first bicycle, choking on my first chocolate fudge. I remembered taking the first drag on my first smoke at that very town. I vividly remembered the peas my mom served me that night. Amber peas floating on pearly melted goat cheese making acquaintances with crab meat and some sour sauce. Those were quieter days. Gentle. Calm. Laid back. Monotonous.

That was before I started to run. And, those were bad days. Real bad. Abes died, Shib died, and Saif too. It rained death. Death hung over us like filthy sunset clouds painted with factory slime, red and black and gray and gang green. Raja vanished, never to be heard or seen again. Murad got caught. He was tired of running. And, Pat… ah! Pat. They said he turned insane. They said he had an intimate encounter with the divine. They said he was just pretending a lot of fluff and stuff. But, they always were ignorant. Nobody knew Pat, not even us. He liked it that way.

When did the run begin? I didn’t know, probably sometime after I was done with my medical studies. Why were we running? I didn’t want to remember. Too painful, muddled and stupid. Not worth it. When did it end? Now, that I recalled with the sharp precision of a surgeon’s scalpel freshly bathed in glutaraldehyde. I stopped running when Raja’s kid sister Ash appeared at my door, slightly out of breath, somewhat trembling, heavily drenched in rain, and totally demolished by the look in her eyes. She came to seek a shelter, and I was the only one left of us. And, she looked heartstopping beautiful. So vulnerable, yet so ravishingly adorable.

I packed up, and moved to the city, bringing her along. It was a very small bag that she carried all her stuff in, as if she was ready to run again. Probably she had do some amount of running to before she reached me. She never talked about it. I remembered the bag – red and black, leather and hemp, with a braided strap and a bell metal buckle shaped like a hippie peace sign, three zippered pockets in the front. The rush of the memory train hit a wall exactly at that moment. How in the fucking hell did I forget what she looked like? I remembered everything – the breeze, the fragrance of her hair, the coolie who helped me get my heavier luggage into the taxi, the warm tarmac, the sun shining down hard… even the color of her nail polish (black, it was always black). Not her face.

SHADOWS (Chapter 1): When I look into your eyes I can see a love restrained

Willem de Kooning, Attic

Leaving the things that are real behind
Leaving the things that you love from mind
All of the things that you learned from fears
Nothing is left for the years
— Toys in the Attic, Aerosmith


It was a head, a human head, severed from the rest of the body, and perfectly pickled in olive oil, mustard and rock salt. It floated gently in a crystal jar among bay leaves, cinnamon, clove and cardamom, eyes closed in a perpetual expression of bliss. There was sodium ascorbate mixed in the olive oil for preservation, like they do for canned apples and tuna. It could use a little chili and pepper, probably a twist of lemon. But, I didn’t know that.

All I knew was I had a head floating in a jar, a goddamn motherfucking head, perched in my attic between a pile of old vinyl records – Frank Sinatra, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, and Louis Armstrong – and a box full of old yellowing letters carrying the mundane from fading friends – “hello, I’m in Greece now”, and “last night my dog passed away”, and “Shifat is getting married to Jihan”, and whatnot. The very right end of the shelf was piled high with poetry books (no, I don’t like poems) – mostly Sylvia Plath (“We are meek/ We are edible”) and Edgar Allan Poe (“All that we see or seem/ Is but a dream within a dream”). The left end was a total anarchy of porcelain figurines – a Gujju folk dancer, Ming the Merciless, the Little Mermaid, a group of Maasai hunters, Sherlock Holmes… and more of that accumulated from around the world (nah! I was never much of a traveler myself). In the very middle was a head without a body.

And, I had no clue how it came there.

Did I put it there? Did someone leave it accidentally? Perhaps that someone left it on purpose. What could be the purpose? Ummm… that someone probably needed a safe place to hide it. Hide it? Why would someone hide something prepared so lovingly, with such care? Besides, no one from the old days knew where I was, what I was doing, or even what I called myself. Could it be that it was placed there to implicate me? But… wouldn’t that purpose be served as effectively if it was not pickled? Hell, I didn’t know, and the head made no sense.

Where the hell did you come from, sweetheart, and why exactly?

The head didn’t answer, of course. So I put it back on the shelf again, and couldn’t help noticing the way the shelf was rusting away. Woodworms, damp and dust – this shelf wouldn’t hold much longer – I thought for a moment. Then – okay, so what’s wrong with this picture? I had a rusting shelf in an attic, covered with dust, and hosting myriads of knickknacks, old letters and older records, and a head floating in a crystal jar, pickled and peaceful. Did I see anything wrong there? Well… just a little detail. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, but the jar.

Yes, it was clean, at least cleaner than the rest of the stuff there. Surely that head couldn’t have come here a long time back. Hey ho, it was freshly pickled, or that’s what it looked like. I stood fixed in front of the head, staring straight into its closed eyes. It wouldn’t open those eyes, though. Memories started trickling in, sipping slowly upwards to consciousness. Those winter noons, sitting with mom on the porch, swimming in the heady aroma of pickles put out to the sun, thinking how to bring down the crow making funny faces at pickle jars. The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. She loved to cook, for the family and for guests, and she always was eager to spread the joy of culinary adventures around. She was a wonderful woman. Like all moms, well… most moms. No complaints.

If European kingdoms united to conquer the Middle East in the medieval time

This army against that army? You must be joking

During then high middle ages, Europe was divided into small feuding kingdoms, duchies and principalities, most as small as 200–300 square kilometres, with the Holy Roman Empire as the largest state (naturally the crusades were largely led by the Holy Romans). Confederated armies of these small states was so ineffective that it took them four centuries conquer back the Iberian Peninsula (the entire Middle East east had 400 times more land and 300 times more people than the peninsula).

By the end of the misadventures of Richard the Lion Heart, Middle East was pretty well organised by Seljuk Empire, Timurid Empire and Abbasid Empire. It would mean a ragtag army without a command structure going against some of the most organised armies in the world.

If you could still gather an army with an effective command structure, it would be clearly have two components - knights (5% of the army) and peasants (95% of the army). None of the peasants went into battle on their own. They did not know how to fight, had no intention to fight, and were very poorly fed and dressed to be effective in a battlefield. That is the reason why in every battle in Europe all belligerent parties lost large number of soldiers very quickly.

Those feuding commanders with the army of unfed peasants, if they could gather, together would then have faced a longest supply line possible over hostile territories. In the way of the army there stood either the Mediterranean or the Byzantine Empire, the biggest adversary of the Holy Romans, up to 14th century, and then by the Muslim Ottoman Empire since 14th century. Getting a horse or a soldier fed, a weapon mended or wounded soldier treated would be perfectly impossible. Every day of fight would take that army closer to annihilation, not victory.

On top of it they had the quick moving, agile Saracen soldiers who lived by the sword from early childhood. If the European army managed to get past the Byzantines and the Seljuk Turks, they would have faced the Mongol and Persian armies of the Timurid Empire, as well as the desert warriors from Bedouin tribes of Arabia, masters of hit-and-run campaigns.

The elite soldiers, i.e. the Teutonic Knights, wore 50 kilograms of metal armour that not only could slow the soldier down by two thirds, and fried the skin of the soldier in sweltering desert heat. The Slavs and Norse were anyways completely ineffective in hotter southern territories. Throughout the medieval times they never won a war in the southern regions. Middle Eastern did not need to fight them, they just could wait for them to boil in the armours or die of hunger and thirst.

The army of peasants would be a very small army compared to the Middle Eastern, as 30%-60% of those hapless peasants were dead in the Black Plague. The entire population Europe was little more than 50 millions, and most of them were children as life expectancy was less than 30 years. They would have been fighting a population of 70–90 millions with a life expectancy of more 35 years. Even if they could gain a quick hold of the coastal areas, a protracted war would only have meant a Europe further depopulated.

Europeans were very good at getting in the medieval times. In the 13th century the Mongol Hordes had already put the entire Eastern European military to shame by cutting them down like grass, knights included. After the Black Plague and Mongol Invasion, these Slavic armies would have been in no shape to join capture one Middle Eastern waterhole, let alone the entire Middle East.

Finally, the people of Middle East would have fought very hard for their homes and their land, as they would have had no place to go to if they lost. Every wadi, every dune, and every village would have become like Stalingrad in WWII, where the might of the Nazi storm troopers stopped at the door of unyielding Russians, a battle that changed the tides of that war.

In short, if the European Kingdoms tried conquering the “entire Middle East” it would mean total destruction of Europe, not the Middle East. Every last European soldier would have either died of hit, hunger, thirst, Saracen swords, and Mongol arrows. With everyone able to lift a sword dead in the deserts of Arabia, Europe would have become an walk over for North African Moors and the Mamulk Sultanate.

How Profound 😛

Lean On by Major Lazer & DJ Snake keeps bursting forth from the damned speakers. One drunk girl hugs another drunk, "I need someone to lean on. And, that's you." The other girls tumbles and sways. The first girl complains, "How do I lean on to you if you keep tumbling and swaying like that?"

Then they both fall.

Amba the Warrior Woman (epilogue)

It suddenly struck me very hard one morning as picked up the Mahabharata for the umpteenth time. No, the book didn't strike me down. Rather it remained in its usual solidity on my desk, ready to endure another reading through, like I do every damn year. What struck me was this revelation that it is possible to read it discounting the supranormal, the paranormal and any such mythological stuff. Yes, it can be read as history. Of course I was inspired by great historians like Romila Thapar and Rajagopalchari, but at that time it felt like an ingenious idea.

And, you know what? I was trying stitch together the story of Amba, who was "reborn" as Shikhandi. It took me a while to be convinced that her tale could be told without all those rebirths, gods walking among men, the boons granted by gods, and sages who lived forever. Damn, it felt like a goldmine.

Will the real Mahabharata stand up?
But, before I started to figure out her tale, I stumbled upon another real gem. I realized that the Mahabharata is essentially a story of barbarian tribes fighting against each other for trivial reasons. Take the story of Shishupala for instance. Bhima and Krishna walked straight to the house of Shishupala, the emperor of the largest empire, and called him out. When he came out Bhima challened him to a duel, and killed him. Does this sound like there were real empires, palaces, armies and such stuff involved? Not to me. Or, take the story of Arjuna at the court of King Birata. Karna, Duryadhona and some other warriors of the Kaurava clan came and tried to take away a herd of cows that the king owned. Arjuna had to fight really hard to get the cows back, and he was much appreciated by the court. Cows!!! Oh, please. Remember, many of the Kings and Emperors had seen glass for the first time when Yudhishthira built his new palace.

Poor people leaving in huts made of mud, straw, bamboo and wood - that's what a palace was. Most travelled on foot, even the princess, and at every turn the cities (rather, the larger villages) stood like island in seas of forests. Cows were the biggest asset, nomads came from many corners, iron was a wonder metal, the laws were not written down (in fact most people didn't know the alphabets, not even kings and princes, and hence the abundance of oral messages), and the clan system was way stronger than kingdoms with a border (no matter how tentative those borders were). What was I smoking? Nothing much, just plain tobacco. This view is well supported by Ms. Thapar, I found out.

I wasn't disappointed. In fact I became even more curious. The more curious I became the more I started to believe that the whole story is a story about the women of Mahabharata. They pulled all the strings, supplied the motivations,

and conspired to make or break "kingdoms". The only woman who didn't do it by manipulating the men was Amba, who decided to take her revenge on her own, and in the process became one of the most feared warriors of her times.

A far fetched dream
I would love to turn her story into a film script someday (I'm working on it, really). I also would like to treat the script as I see Mahabharata - the real history (in reality arrows don't turn around to bite the archer, or dead people don't come back from the netherworld at a sage's wish). I have no idea who is going to turn that script into a film. But, well, that can't stop me from writing it. Not that I don't care. I do. I care so much that I want it to be made before Bipasha Basu grows old. As a feared warrior who also is a sizzling beauty, I can see absolutely no one but Ms. Basu playing the role of Amba. For Bhishma it is entirely possible to cast Amitabha Bachchan for the older version, and Abhishek Bachchan for the younger version (shouldn't take a lot of special effect make up, eh?). The king of Shalwa can, of course, be John Abraham.

Who do I believe can direct this? Well, I'd believe Ashutosh Gowarikar could do justice to the narrative. Haven't think of anyone beyond him. It shouldn't be a very high budget film, as there is no super sets and gorgeous costumes or loads of special effect to depict Brahmastras and shape shifters involved. Let's see what happens.

The journey has began, and there's still a long way to go. Let me tread the road one step at a time. Thanks.


[BTW, critical commentary on and outright criticism of all three parts of the story would be highly appreciated]

Amba the Warrior Woman (part 3)

Long ago in the battlefield of Kurukshetra, the army of the Kauravas and the army of the Pandavas faced each other to fight until total destruction of one army or both. The Kaurava clan including the mighty generals Bhishma and Drona formed the mainstay of Kaurava army. The Panchala army including King Drupada, his two inheritors Amba and Dhrishtadyumna, and his champions Yudhamanyu and Uttamauja formed the backbone of the Pandava army led by Arjuna and his brothers.

Revelation
On the eve of the war, when leaders of both armies gathered in their respective camps, Bhishma declared that he would do his best to exterminate the Pandava upstarts and Drona declared to do everything he can to annihilate the Panchala army. Bhishma was selected to be the general of the Kauravas. At the other camp Arjuna and his brothers divided the army into multiple groups and selected a general each for every group with Dhrishtadyumna as the undeclared de facto general.

Amba, though a mightier warrior than her brother, declared her one goal to fell Bhishma. At the same time Bhishma told the leaders of his army that he would not fight Shikhandi, as he came to deduce from the news that his spies brought that Shikhandi is Amba, a woman. He said a warrior should never fight a woman, a child, an old man or a cripple. Thus on the eve of the war Amba's identity was revealed, but she paid no heed. Only inches away from her goal she was beyond caring for the future.

The war against Bhishma
Next morning the war began. Each of greatest warriors on each side engaged another warrior of his stature from the opposing camp. In this way Amba, the only woman warrior, engaged Drona's son Ashwatthama. Neither could prevail over the other, and they both retired bleeding as the day ended. For next six days Bhishma continued to keep his pledge of exterminating the Pandava army.

On the seventh day of the war Amba managed to engage Bhishma for the first time. Amba attacked Bhishma with all her might, but even in his insistence upon not fighting a woman Bhishma could repel her attacks fine. When other warriors, not bound by the same code, joined Bhishma, she had to withdraw with deep regret. Bishma continued to kill.

On the night of the ninth day of the war, the Pandava brothers went to meet Bhishma in secret to ask for his blessing. Bhishma laughed and told them that at this old age he doesn't want to fight anymore, but he was bound by his warrior's code. He suggested Pandavas to attack him in a formation that puts Amba in the front and Arjuna in the back to fell him. The next day Amba and Arjuna does exactly that. When Ashwatthama came forward in Bhishma's aid, he was thwarted by a ferocious attack from Dhrishtadyumna.

Bhishma felled, severely injured and crippled, and Drona took over as the general of the Kauravas.

The war against Drona
With Bhishma effectively gone from the scene, Drona set out on tactics that did not correspond exactly with the warrior's code. Together with son and other warriors including Jayadratha, he ganged up against Arjuna's son the child warrior Abhimanyu and killed him. When a grief stricken Arjuna vowed to kill Jayadratha to avenge his son or die himself, Drona tried to keep Jayadratha away from the battlefield, expecting Arjuna to die to keep his oath. Jayadratha was killed by Arjuna anyways. Drona at same time killed Drupada, the King of Panchala.

Krishna, a friend of both Draupadi, princess of Panchala, and Arjuna, the finest warrior prince of the Pandavas, advised the Pandavas to slay Drona by any means even if the means was a little outside the code. On the fifteenth day of the war false news of Ashwatthama's death was spread, and the news was carried to Drona by the eldest of Pandava brothers. A grief stricken Drona threw his weapons away to break down in tears. Dhrishtadyumna, who was trained from an early age to kill Drona, jumped on him and cut him into two.

The war continued for three more days, and both armies were massacred leaving only a few dozen alive.

End of Amba
On the eighteenth day of the war the Padavas finally came victorious over the Kauravas, and they went to their camp to lick their wounds and celebrate. At the same time, the last handful of Kauravas were gathered by Ashawatthama, who hatched the plan to kill the remaining Pandava warriors in their sleep. Everyone protested first against this devious plan, but Ashawatthama managed to convince them. Thus he became the general for the last night.

Ashwatthama, along with two other warriors, crept into the Pandava camp past midnight and started to slaughter them in their sleep. He killed all of the remaining Panchala people including Amba, Dhrishtadyumna, Yudamanyu and Uttamauja - exactly in that order. Both Amba and Dhirshtadyumna died happy as they had their vengeance fulfilled.

Unknown to all, a Gandharva named Sthunakarna,was freed from the command of his leader, Kubera through Amba's death. He left the Panchala palace to join other Gandharvas after all these years.

~The End~

Amba the Warrior Woman (part 02)

Long long ago in the land of Panchala lived a young price named Drupada who went to the warrior training school of sage Agnibaishya. At the school he became a close friend of Drona, a student from the priest class. The friends parted when they passed out of the school, and went their separate ways. Durpada went on to become the king of Panchala, while Drona went on to embrace an ascetic life. Both got married, and Drona's wife gave birth to their son Ashwatthama. But, Drupada and his wife could not bear a child, and suffered long. Then they decided to ask blessings of Lord Shiva the destroyer.

Sons and daughters
Within a very short time warrior sage Parashurama, who was reputed as disciple of Shiva the destroyer, appeared at the court of Panchala. He introduced Amba, the cast out daughter of the King of Kashi, as the son Shiva has sent to him. Though a little apprehensive, Drupada accepted Parashurama's words and started bringing Amba up as the crown prince, providing her with all the trainings a crown prince should have. At the royal house of Panchala she took the name Shikhandi and became a ferocious warrior. In due time she was sent off to learn the highest of a warriors art at the ashram of Parashurama.

It was fine till a group of rich kids started making jokes at the poverty of Ashwatthama. Drona went to his friend the king and asked for some riches to raise his son properly. The king laughed and refused recognize their friendship. Drona went out with revenge in mind, a revenge sworn also by Ashwatthama, and went to teach the princes of Kaurava clan the secrets of a warriors art. When his lessons were over Drona asked the princes to humiliate Drupada on his behalf on the battlefield. While Amba was away to her guru's ashram, the princess defeated Drupada to pay their own guru.

Utterly shaken, Drupada decided to ask Lord Shiva for more children, so that his kingdom can always remain safe. This time the queen gave birth to the twins - Draupadi and Dhrishtadumnya. Amba returned to her new home shortly, and the king started to arrange for her marriage. But, since she was raised as a prince, she was married off to woman - the daughter of Hiranyabarman, the king of Dasharna. The newly wed wife of Amba quickly found out the truth about her husband and left for her father in tears.

Saved again
Hearing the story of his daughter an enraged Hiranyabarman sent messengers to Drupada asking for an explanation. Amba's heart sank. After coming so near to her dream of revenge, everything was about to get ruined. She went again to the forests to cry her heart out. This time she was heard by Sthunakarna, a follower of Kuber, the king of Gandharvas, a race of rich nomads famous for their sexual antiques. Sthunakarna asked Amba why she was crying, and upon hearing her story showed her how he l

ooked very much like her. He proposed to play Amba's role in the night to keep her wife happy, while Amba could train and practice for her revenge in the day.

Amba returned to Panchala and challenged Hiranyabarman to prove that she was a man. A dozen of select whores were sent to the court of Panchala, and Sthunakarna left all of them panting for more. Hiranyabarman sent her daughter back and the secret pact between Sthunakarna and Amba started working fine. When Kuber found out about this outrage he forbade Sthunakarna to return as his entourage until Amba died.

Tangled conspiracies
Draupadi grew up, and befriended Krishna, a prince of the Yadava clan. Drupada arranged for her sayabmbara. Arjuna, a prince of the smaller house of Kaurava royalty and a close friend of Krishna, won the saymbara contest. But, invoking an ancient law Arjuna's mother Kunti, got her married to all five of her sons. Arjuna and his brothers turned into enimies of their kins, the larger house of Kaurava royalty, and started calling their fraternity the Pandavas, after the name of their father Pandu, the younger son of Bichitrabirya. They also started referring to the other royal house of Kauravas as Dhartarashtras, after the name of Dhritarashtra, the elder son of Bichitrabirya.

Bitterness between the Pandavas and the Dhartarashtras grew to a point where they declared war against each other for the crown of Hastinapur. Messengers were sent to all royal houses and clans and tribes asking them to join either camp. When the messengers came to the court of Panchala, the decision was quickly made. Since Bhishma and Drona was leading the Dhartarashtra army, and since Amba and Dhrishtadyumna respectively was sworn to kill them, it was not a difficult decision to make. The consideration that Draupadi, their sister, was the wife of all the five Pandava princess was not even needed.

Drupada, Amba and Drishtadyumna led the Panchala army into the War of Kurukshtra to fight against the mighty Dhartarashtra army, which was known to most people as the authentic Kaurava army. The prospects for the smaller Pandava army looked small indeed.

Amba the Warrior Woman (part 01)

Long ago there lived three princesses in the Kingdom of Kashi who went by the names Amba, Ambika and Ambalika. Amba, the eldest, was a beautiful tomboy who was madly in love with the you King of Shalwa. She convinced her father to arrange a sayambara, the choosing of the groom, for her and her sisters, with a plan to choose the King of Salwa, an effeminate guy who wouldn't have been chosen by her father as her groom in any other way.

Catastrophe
But, the sayambara went terribly wrong as Bhishma, the regent champion of the mighty clan of Kauravas, appeared at the ceremony. He was looking for girls young enough to be married off to his young step-brother Bichitrabirya. When everyone laughed at Bhishma, he took the three sisters by force on to his chariot and drove off. When the gathered kings and princes, merchants and priests tried to stop him, he defeated them all. The King of Shalwa was defeated most disgracefully, and he left as a butt of joke to his kingdom.

When Bhishma reached Hastinapura, the Kaurava capital, and started arranging the marriage ceremony, Amba stood up to Bishma. She declared that she was in love with the King of Shalwa and that they were married in their hearts, an

d that it would be unethical for Bhishma to marry her off to his brother. Consulting his priests, Bhishma immediately let her go.

Dejection
Amba went to the court of Shalwa to break the good news of her release to the king. But, the King of Shalwa, a humiliated and tormented soul, refused to accept her. He told in rude terms that he can't entertain someone abducted and thus turned unclean. Heartbroken and humiliated, Amba went to her parental home. But, the King of Kashi refused to take her back as he considered how his subjects would react to him taking a daughter already taken by Bhishma and the King of Shalwa.

Dejected, heartbroken, humiliated and homeless, Amba leaves for the forests and there she starts crying. Hotrabahana, a maternal uncle of Amba and a kingly sage leaving in the forests, took her to his ashrama and sheltered her there. He summoned for Akritabrana, a follower of his friend and Parashurama, to have Parashurama visit the ashrama and listen to the plight of Amba.

Failure
Parashurama, the mighty warrior saint who was engaged in a long raging battle against the warrior class wielding his mighty battle axe, came and listened and proposed two ideas to Amba - he could make the King of Shalwa take her back or get Bhishma to do something about it. A woman scorned, Amba didn't want to go back her lover who refused her in the times of trouble, and asked Parashurama to take an action against Bhishma.

Parashurama sent Akritabrana to fetch Bhishma. Bhishma came armed with weapons handed over to him by his mother, Ganges, a princess of nomads of the rivers. Parashurama asked him to do justice to Amba, and marry her. Bhishma refused, as he was oath-bound to his father not to marry ever. They fought each other for days and nights, and finally both fell exhausted. Unable to prevail over Bhishma, Parashurama asked for Amba's forgiveness. Amba declared, she would seek her revenge on her own.

Parashurama agreed to help her, and took her to Drupada, the king of Panchala.

i UNderstand

In Bangladesh advertising market, social communication, i.e. development communication (those were pre-FB times), used to be a big business. At one point UN agencies were spending millions through us advertising people along with a host of other local and international clients. But the business dried up. It boiled down to direct wheeling dealing between the client and the vendors/media, pre-decided media and vehicle choice, zero emphasis on ideas and so on.

Development communication aka social communication (because many of the practitioners still don't have FB) does not communicate... and, does not make a lot of business sense. Though millions of dollars are spent, they are by design spent by rank amateurs like partner NGOs, community organizations... and, the media (primarily TV stations and newspapers), because they are closer to the government.

How did this happen? Why?

Pretty simple. The development sector DOES NOT want professional communication campaigns. Because they are not professionals. Their jobs are not about making money, which is the primary criteria for professionalism (call it capitalism if you wish to). They are social movers, do-gooders, and change makers. They CAN NOT in any way believe in what professional communicators do.

So, what does the professional communicator, i.e. the manipulator, the filthy salesman of useless consumerist junk do?

Let's see. There's insight mining, behavior analysis, perception mapping, communication mapping, media and market tracking to begin with. There's brand ideation, idea testing, integrated communication design, impact projection and so on. Did I mention investment efficiency, communication efficiency measured in attention grabbing quality, likability and memorability at the very least, brand and communication property development, or cognitive disruption?

Well, since us profit-making scum-of-the-earth engage in all that, the development sector MUST stay clear of them. It is only natural that they form their own communication strategy departments, and then hire strategists who has never heard of brand tracking or NGRP or any of the basics. Mind it, they know their own set of concepts like focused communication, cross-cutting issue, stakeholder participation, and service providers. All good concepts. But it is difficult so see how they replace the concepts used in the professional circuits (i.e. brand idea etc.).

Ironically, after reducing the role of agencies from consultants to vendors the development sector still wonders why their most carefully designed communication is less effective than the average soap or shampoo commercial.

So far it's all good. The biggest losers are us. And, probably communication effectiveness along with creativity.

But, I really can't ignore the fact that people still remember the big campaigns developed by professional agencies for the development sector. Decade old campaigns are still getting high top-of-mind recall, including some low frequency short duration campaigns. I also can't help noticing that Asiatic JWT has been the agency (for strategy, creatives, media and activation) for many of them like Vitamin A campaign for UNICEF (i.e. "rog balai toh ase duniya-i") or early learning campaign for UNICEF (i.e. "mon cholo jai ishkool-e"). There also are Sisimpur (US-AID), Lagba Baji (SMC), Shobuj Chata (BCCP) and others. Ahem.

Interestingly, they can't recall any of the recent campaigns (not to mention their messages, made with all the right intentions) even when aided. Proliferation media leading to audience fragmentation is definitely one big reason. Gives me reason to think that we need more insights for the fragmented audience, we need to plan for media more professionally in this day and age of high proliferation. It also gives me reason to think that a professionally crafted campaign with all the necessary components like idea, media, activities, properties and creative execution is an absolute need. Cases in point - our little campaign on skill development training for Swiss Contact, or our campaign on avian influenza for Academy for Educational Development.

And, I have a light apprehension that, in many of the cases, the urge to move away from the salesmen was so great that the campaign forgot to target what any shampoo or soap maker is bound to target for their own survival - the people. Many of these campaigns do not target the people (defined as beneficiary, participant, audience, TG and so on). They target the donor, the government, the media and the parent offices.

Sad but, from what I see, true. Ignore all conspiracy theory and just check out the semantics. The words, concepts, promises, images, and invites these communication use are more friendly towards the client and its partners. The notions were by the communication science of a thousand differing activists (all running high on the adrenaline of field experience in running community programs) forging complex non-binding documents in conferences around the world (generally nice locations like Cannes, Rio, Venice, Dubai and Amsterdam).

When consulting doctors, the same client does not visit a folk doctor, or for legal advise does not go to the local tea stall. But, when it comes to communication folk wisdom and anecdotes from around plays VERY important roles. I can try to guess why that happens, but that will be all conjecture. I have nothing to prove for those guesses.

So, I guess it is time to wrap. Just remember, we the baddies have a few things going for us - expertise, experience and excellence in execution. Do not not sale your campaign short. Seek out professionals to do your work for you. The money you save by flying blind is only money wasted.

We may not be god's gift the communication, but we try. Often with success.

City of Joy

The first thing you notice when you come out of the airport to meet Dhaka for the first time has to be the sheer number of people overflowing from every corner in Dhaka. UN Habitat’s Urban Data tells us that Dhaka hosts 14.54 million people in 324 square km (according to Bangladesh Bureau of Statistics more than 2 million are slum dwellers). 44,500 people lives per sq km in Dhaka. That makes it the most densely populated core urban area in the world.

According to World Population Review, the population of Dhaka was about 300K in 1950, which means it has grown some 50 times (yes, that’s right) in about 65 years. Also it continues to grow 2.2 times faster than the national average, which is saying a lot for the 9th most populated country in the world. In 15 more years it will be more than 27 million people. According to Daniel Hoornweg & Kevin Pope, it will be the third largest city by population in 2050 (they predict New York to be 9th and Tokyo to be 7th in that year).


This is how they live.

This how they move.

There are 3,000 km of roads in Dhaka (The Only Solution by Md. Saidur Rahman), which is less than 7% of urban area (compare to New York and Paris with 30% of land given to roads). More than half of only 400 km of sidewalks are overtaken by street vendors, and there are only 60 traffic lights in the city. The streets have 128 street corners per km (The Geometry of Urban Layouts: A Global Comparative Study By Mahbub Rashid), making them even less navigable for some 1 million cars, half a million rickshaws and half a million more of unregistered vehicles.

The sheer chaos of so many people crowding together, putting extreme pressure on every infrastructure, is spectacular (for example 4.5K tonnes of waste generated daily and only 63% of that is never collected - the stench is awesome). It is compounded by the lawlessness of the systems and the natural inclination of the people to be unruly. Mercer ranks Dhaka 214 among 231 cities in their livability index and Economist Intelligence Unit ranks Dhaka as the 2nd least liveable city, while the Future Law Initiative ranks Bangladesh 103 among 131 countries in their rule of law index.



The above picture is from an affluent part of the city, expect uncollected rotting trash.
You would still be fortunate if you are travelling now, as the all pervasive billboards of Dhaka were outlawed in August 2016. Otherwise that would have been the first thing you would have noticed.



This how billboards covered the city two years back.

You still would probably be visually struck by the 500K cycle rickshaws plying the overcrowded streets of Dhaka. These cycle rickshaws are the mainstay of middle class transport in Dhaka (approximately 20% of the Dhaka population and 50% of Dhaka landowners), and are a highly interesting sight with their bright decoration and folk-artsy back-boards.


You can’t miss the cycle rickshaws.

Rickshaw art 1

Rickshaw art 2

Dhaka is one of the least motorised cities in the world. Number of all vehicles per 100,000 population is only 2,630 vehicles, among them about 2,195 are non-motorised vehicles. It is observed that rickshaws and other NMT account for 50% or more of the overall traffic flow on roads. After pedestrians, the rickshaw is the most preferred mode of transport in Dhaka. About 60% of trips are on foot while almost half of the remaining trips are on non-motorised vehicle. (source) But still, lack of roads makes Dhaka the traffic capital of the world.
You can’t miss the traffic congestion either. And, you can’t miss the noise levels. While UK Environment Protection Act of 1997 sets 45 dB, in Dhaka the average noise is 75 or more for residential areas, making hearing loss, stress and other noise related problems a major health hazard.

Sight, sound and smell - Dhaka will strike first time visitors very strongly. Try not to experience Dhaka in the night. According to Numbeo, safety index for walking in the night in New York is 50, for walking during daytime in Dhaka has an index of 46. Stay safe, stay patient while in Dhaka.

This isn't just theory

What makes social media so important?

For one, it is not one-way communication. The audience can always talk back to you. Audience-feedback is instantaneous, direct and... Well... Often surprising.

For the audience and the holy grail of communication - audience attention - this presents a wonderful opportunity. When engaged right they can feel so empowered and cared-for, that the right use of social media can create loyals out of casuals and fans (a short form for fanatic) out of loyals.

Take the LCSS Facebook group for an example. Did you notice that fans kept posting and discussing even when the show was almost a year in the past, and even though we hardly engaged them?

This also presents a wonderful opportunity for the communicator. It's like the difference between the actor on the stage who instantly knows about her performance from jeers and cheers, and the screen actor who gets to know probably a year later from the phone calls, mails and public reviews. No wonder, almost all big Hollywood actors tries the stage out at the height of their confidence.

But social media seems difficult. So many groups and like-pages and network-pages and individual profiles exist. So many options. And... Really... Haven't we seen most of these pages and groups failing?

For instance, take a look at those dozens of groups Nokia created in Bangladesh. All are floating in limbo from the very outset.

Okay. The first step is simple - START.

Yes, just go ahead and start. Until you ask that boy out, how are you going to find out if he's going to turn you down or not?

Then keep the conversation running.

Have you ever noticed how much sweet nothings float in the air when people are trying to bond, to forge a relationship, to get to a consensus? It's not necessarily what you say, but also how you say it.

Doing that with your boyfriend or your friend is probably not as difficult as conversing with thousands of unknown people. No, you wouldn't know the participants/audience of your facebook group personally. Not always. Not if your group is successful. They come from different backgrounds and with different expectations.

So how do you keep the conversation running?

Three principles:

• SEEDING: give them something to discuss about, as in create content - images, videos, events, posts, discussions, comments (yes, more than 80% of Facebook content are just the comments)
• FEEDING: keep the conversation alive, be responsive (laugh, rebuke, cheer, jeer, inform, educate, motivate... It's community after all)
• WEEDING: don't tolerate or create junk, spam or disruptors

Nurture the group as you nurture your on-line circle of friends. If you don't know what an on-line circle of friends is, check the comments you make, the messages you send, the pictures you upload and the time you're on chatting. Do you meet all these people more often on the virtual world or the real world?

Be friendly. Be interesting. Be informative.

On social media, you don't target your audience. Rather you become the target for your audience.

Assign at least two resources to dedicate some time to social media. Obviously, one can only preach. Discussion starts with at least two people. Be sure that those two people are able to do more than uploading pictures and pressing the like button.

They have to be able to TALK, through images, videos, words and more.

Did they put in caption to the image uploaded? A title to the video? Did they tag anyone to draw attention? Did they put in the necessary information in the event invite, or dress it up with pictures and videos? Are they sending too many bland messages to all members? Please, be friendly, interesting, and informative.

But, everyone at the communicator’s side need to chip in. If you don't belong to the community you create, why would you expect others to belong to your community?

Did you invite your friends to the group? Did you comment on anything? Did you make a wall post, or create a discussion? Then what are you doing on the group? Even the common fans are doing more than what you are doing.

Some of those groups or pages have additional advantage. Like the LCSS group, which has previous winners as members and officers. They are wonderful opportunities for seeding and feeding... After all the community is full of their fans. With some effort put into it, this can obviously be taken further. For example - updates on their career highlights and posts and comments from them.

Social media is constant engagement, unlike the thirty-seconder. And it's growing. Let's make things more interesting from where we stand. It's not too difficult.

And, of course, have someone to pay for the efforts and resources. :-)

I wrote this in 2010. Back then Facebook was no business platform, with pages and verified pages and promoted posts and in-stream ads and what not. But, with all the advertisement stuff, that is the same as TV or print, only more frequent and better targeted, we have essentially lost much of our conversation.

The LCSS group was shut down by the client without even notifying us, all the assets built up over a decade was lost because of a client – Syeda Bushra Sania Faiz – did not have enough brains to care.

Draft: Television

Story 03: Episode 01

The story begins showing Zara and Amir traveling by a rural local bus packed full with farmers and the farm produces, both animate and inanimate. Zara looks out the window to see the charms of a green Bangladesh, while Amir listens to the farmers chat. One young passenger hails the driver to announce that he'd like to disembark at certain place. The chatting stops, while the driver groans - "We don't stop there." The young man argues that the bus has been stopping at every request, and this place should be no different. The driver groans louder and more irritated, "What you don't know, boy, you don't know. Now shut up and sit down. I'll drop you at the nearest convenient stop."

The nearest convenient stop comes five kilometers down the road, and both Zara and Amir decide to follow the young man to the forbidden destination. The more they proceed to the intended place, the less frequent become people, birds, cows and animated life form. All three, who have already become acquainted, notice this. They Zara and Amir gets to know that they are heading to the parental home of Yasser, the young man.

They reach a village where everyone is going through their daily chores like Zombies or robots, without any apparent emotion or botheration. Otherwise it's a perfect reflection of a regular village. They don't fail to notice this either. Yasser and his new friends are received well by Yasser's parents. They fresh up, have a snack, and then go out to take a stroll around the village. Yasser tries to chat up a some people he was friendly with in the past, but no one entertains him beyond a few cursory one-word responses. They give up, and start looking out for signs of non-human animal life. None is seen.

Night falls, and they start going back to Yasser's home. On their way back, they suddenly discover that all the villagers are heading toward one single house in the middle of the village, the house that has a battery run TV. Yasser laughs, and says that some things never change. They head to that house to take a look at the TV program that attracts everyone in the village.

Coming closer to the house, they see the TV brought out onto the courtyard like so many other rural Bangladesh households. But, there's a certain strangeness to the scene, as the TV is only showing static noise, and everyone is watching it like it's the best TV show in the world. In unison they laugh and cry, shout in anger and whisper in anticipation. The three stops proceeding any further, rather they hide behind a fence to watch the scene in awe, until a little boy approaches them from behind and startles them bad.

"What are doing here? You are not like them," demands the boy. "I was about to ask the same question," replies Zara, while Amir adds, "Why are you not watching the TV?" The boy looks at them apprehensively and then says, "I am don't watch it, and that's why I still remain human. I'd recommend you do the same... better, you run. I don't know if I can survive long. But, you must get away." While this is going on, the TV site changes a bit. One by one the villagers go up to the TV and touches the screen. Everyone touching the screen is overwhelmed by an expression of deep pain, as if something is drawing the life-juice out of them. One of the older villagers collapses down with a shriek, but no one cares to take a look.

The episode ends on this high note.

Story 03: Episode 02

The episode begins exactly where the last episode ended. The boy, Suman, leads the trio away from the TV lot. He narrates how a year back one day the TV, the only one in the village, stopped showing shows, but the villagers kept watching the static noise ("zhir zhir" in Bengali). This apparently drew out all humanity, as well as life energy out of them. They started killing off all moving beings and eating them raw. Then with a shudder he tells how they ran out of moving beings sans the people, and they started eating people. Well, they only eat those who collapse after touching the TV screen, and only after the viewing is over. He also describes how the rest of the world, at least the world according to him, has blocked the area off and ceased all transaction with them. While he narrates this horrifying story, glimpses of flashbacks can be seen, to make the story more appalling.

"Outsiders are easy prey, like you three are," Suman declares somberly, adding, "I survive, because I keep hiding all the time, and unlike them, I eat only green things that grow on trees and bushes." All four of them wait the night over, not returning to Yasser's parents' place. All the while they can sense that there's a search party looking for them.

With day-break Suman urges them to leave any how they can. Yasser tries to protest, as he wants to take one last look at his parents. But, the rest of companions convince him not to. Zara starts a fight with Amir, who doesn't believe in anything unexplainable by science. Amir really can't argue back. Suddenly he looks like he's been hit by an idea pretty hard. He rises and declares that he's going into the village with Suman for one important reason, telling the rest to wait till they come back or two hours, whatever comes first. Completely perplexed everyone in the group try to resist him, but he presses on and manages to take Suman along.

Suman and Amir stealthily approach the TV house to find the TV still out on the courtyard. Amir picks up a shovel lying unattended, and runs towards the TV set. He hits the set with all his might, and keeps smashing it down, until Suman draws his attention to a mob of villagers approaching them for all corners. The two run, hide and run back to their companions. When the original three starts to move out, Zara decides they can't leave Suman back. All four of them start together, including an ecstatic Suman.

This would be the first case that Amir and Zara couldn't solve in any damn way. But, that's the beauty of the unexplained.

Draft: Pishach

Story 02: Episode 01

The story begins with a satanic ritual, slightly exaggerated and in-sync with Bangladeshi sensitivities, of course. An entire family is involved in it, and are led by an astrologer/necromancer. At the end of the ritual a young woman's soul is sold-off to the hell-spawn to bring good fortunes. The young woman turns into a possessed person. She starts doing serious poltergeist tricks, which makes the family so uncomfortable that they contemplate throwing her out of home. But, when they try to do that the young woman faces them with a completely un-natural voice, hissing revenge if they do it. The family backs away.

Zara gets summoned by the chief reporter, who hands the investigation over to her. She immediately takes to action. But, a quick visit to the house makes her thoroughly confused, as she can't associate the sweet and bubbly young woman in front of her to the horror stories told be the family and neighbors. When she flops down in a neighborhood cafe and starts chewing her pencil, another person flops down across her at the same table. Zara looks up to find Amir sitting with her. She brightens up and explains him the situation.

Amir goes to the family with her, telling that the spirit inside her will be manifest when certain artifacts are shown to it, coupled with certain mantras. When they reach the house, the woman remains as adorable as ever. But, when Amir produces an ancient charm and recites certain words, she changes into a hideous monstrosity, closely resembling her outer appearance, but with certain subtle differences. She shouts abuses and threats is an un-natural voice (partly in an unknown language), and magically hurls things at them. Zara and Amir bearly escape with their lives.

On this exciting note the episode ends.

Story 02: Episode 02

Zara gets to her office to find all her utensils and papers thrown helter skelter, some torn, some broken. She calls Amir to tell this. Amir runs to his office and finds the same has been done to his office. Both decide to go and meet the woman again. On the way, Amir explains hypnotic suggestions and spell-breakers. He shows Zara some of the spell-breaking stuff he brought from his office. Every logic that tells Zara that this is real possession is refuted by Amir.

When they reach the house, Amir does a lot of mumbo-jumbo - from sprinkling their own bodies with holy water and hanging large talismans all over their bodies down to drawing elaborate runes on the floor. Amir taunts the woman enough to lure her into the runes. Then he starts flailing charms and reciting mantras. The woman shouts, screams, groans, and eventually faints. Amir declares to the family that the hell-spawn has left. Only the father of the woman whispers, "But, won't the hell-spawn take a revenge on you?" Amir tells him and Zara that he is too well protected to for the hell-spawn to take a revenge.

Coming out of the house they both laugh at the fear of the father, and decides to get to the astrologer/necromancer to hand him over to the police. By the time they reach Amir's car, Zara drops her notebook. With the engine running they both get out to pick it up. While they are picking the notebook up, the car bursts into flames, together with a monstrous laugh coming out of nowhere.

May be there's a hell-spawn seeking revenge. May be the astrologer/necromancer had one more ace up his sleeve. The story ends with the audience completely vexed.

Note: I believe, this astrologer/necromancer can become a recurring character, like the Q of Star Trek.