The Home and the World

When the Bengali movie “The Home and the World” was released in 1985 I dragged my friend Kathy to the Beverly Center in Los Angeles to see a weekday matinee. South Asia had begun to fascinate me and Kathy was a good sport. I still remember wandering around the food court afterward; it was too early for dinner and so we rode the escalators and waited for rush hour traffic to die down. The movie spawned a million jokes that afternoon, mostly because we were too young to be sensitive to the movie’s themes (the perils of staying close to home; the perils of leaving; the perils of passionate devotion to a cult leader) and too in love with our own banter. We cracked each other up.

A few days ago, after using the ATM at the Radisson Blu in Chittagong, I sat in the air-conditioned bar and, again, waited for the traffic to ease up (it never does). To pass some time I went over to a bookcase that stood just to the left of the bar (not sure which is weirder: a bookcase in a bar or a bar in dry Bangladesh). I scanned the English-language paper, flipped through a spy novel to see if there were any racy scenes, and then picked up a compendium of Rabindranath Tagore stories. And there it was: The Home and the World.

I suppose I could have paid for a full night at the Radisson to finish the story, but I do have housing through the AUW and I’m not wild about traveling in a three-wheel taxi after dark, so I left after the first chapter with only a vague recollection of what happens to Bimala, the story’s heroine. In that first chapter, Tagore writes of Bimala’s desire to revere her husband and of her husband’s desire for her to be emancipated. These competing views of the world unsettle Bimala, making her open to the demands of a third character, a charismatic political figure whose desires for Bimala prove to be dangerous and self-serving.

Bimala, of course, has her own life, one that neither man takes into account. For reasons honorable and nefarious, these men want to define this woman’s experience. They want to control her, make her fit into their view of the world. They’re willing, too, to let her pay the price for their desires.

Tagore wrote The Home and the World in 1916; would this book be banned in Florida or Texas in 2022 because it questions gender roles? Because it is anti-authoritarian at heart? The story is also an allegory about the ravages of colonialism. Won’t some people feel bad about that, particularly if they weren’t colonialists themselves?

And what about the children?

I was served bitter gourd at dinner last night. It was a bracing side dish, but I wouldn’t want to make a meal of it.

The world is too much with us, at least in this digital age (apologies to Wm. Wordsworth). Am awash in news from the States, most of it disheartening, while trying to be here in this very temporary home. Weird to fall asleep and wake up in Bangladesh after dreaming about home. Hard to recognize either place.

Teaching continues. I was invited to Cox’s Bazar, the longest beach in the world, to lead a class and conduct an improv workshop at Cox’s Bazar International University. I loved it. Some photos to capture the strangeness:

I took the bus from Chittagong to Cox’s Bazar; the 90-mile trip took nearly five hours. The windshield did not lie: it was harrowing (and beautiful and exciting).

Rainy, dreary, muddy when we arrived. I walked down to the shore before lunch, making up my mind that not only was Cox’s Bazar the world’s longest beach, but also the most depressing. Then I saw this:

And this:

And this:

By the time I made it to the university my mind was changed (or opened). Cox’s Bazar, long as it is, may even be the world’s most bizarre beach, and that’s fine with me:

M.K. Jatra, my host, took me on a tour of the school. Climate change is affecting low-lying, alluvial countries like Bangladesh at a terrifying rate. The recent monsoon rain had drenched the school–mostly through the ceiling and windows–and the wreckage was immediately visible:

We began the workshop with formal speeches from the dais. My biggest hope is that M.K. Jatra’s Bangla translation enhanced my introductory talk. In my limited defense, I didn’t realize I’d be speaking until he handed me the microphone and said, “You go.” Thank goodness I’m an improviser:

The students–all taking a certificate course in “Expressive Psychotherapy”–showed no signs of despair over the ravaged building. With the translating help of M.K. Jatra, they joined in the exercises with enthusiasm and laughter. In the debriefs they made connections between being in-the-moment and being free from the dread of anxiety. More than anything, they supported each other. At times three or four would cluster around a classmate, confer wildly, and then find the right English word to express their thoughts. When I tried to conduct a warm up using Bangla numbers (my Bangla language learning has stalled) they leaned in to help me, cheering at my rudimentary skills.

They were improvisers! Collaborative, curious, committed. It was a great afternoon.

As mentioned, the students above are getting certified through the Expressive Psychotherapy program; they’re exploring artistic processes–theater, painting, music–as a way to conduct therapy with traumatized clients. Due to this training, a culture of self-disclosure has taken root among the students. They share a lot. After a vigorous game of Zip-Zap-Zop, I asked if anyone had any questions. One woman did:

“What do you do when everyone betrays you? How do you trust again?”

Um…

Her classmates joined in, excoriating some guy who had promised love and then changed his mind. After submitting the evidence, which was vague but expressive, the students looked at me with high hopes. Surely the visiting professor must have an answer.

I said I was sorry this had happened to her. I reminded her that this was an improv class, so I was going to frame my response in improv terms. I talked about how improv is always about honoring the moment, not ignoring what was happening, and then starting from that point. She had been hurt. Betrayed. As an improviser, she needed to recognize the pain and begin to find inspiration there.

She and her cohort shook their heads and murmured, “No, no.”

I (sort of) stand by my answer. In retrospect (improv essentials: don’t look back!) I wish I’d said, “You seem disgusted by his behavior. Good! You know you deserve better. Start from there.”

I also could have said, “I love your openness, your unwillingness to shut down. I think that will serve you, even if it leaves you open to another betrayal. It’s not easy being a human being.”

Or, even better: “That’s a great question. What do you think?”

After class M.K. Jatra and I had tea and samosas and then walked for two hours along the beach. It was glorious, peaceful, quiet. The tide was high, leaving pools of water on the sand. It was like walking on a mirror.

Now I’m back in Chittagong, working with my students at the Asian University for Women and conducting a workshop for the Bangladesh Therapeutic Theater Institute (BTTI). Everyone has been welcoming; it amazes me that they’re willing to let some bossy stranger into their midst and then wholeheartedly jump into these crazy exercises (“pretend you’re a lumberjack”; “now be a clam”). I’m a lucky man; I should be smiling on the BTTI banner:

I leave in a little over a week. I’ll miss these students. I’ll miss this place. The other day I went with another faculty member to the site of the future Asian University for Women, just outside of Chittagong in a beautiful, green valley. I felt a little sad that I’ll most likely never see the new school. Ground had been broken eleven years ago for the new campus, but very little construction had begun (money woes), and at this rate of progress it could be a while before students arrive.

And yet: tucked into the brick-and-mortar entrance to this imagined school was a marble plate with a poem by Rabindranath Tagore, writing about home and the world. The elements have already worn down his lofty sentiments, but the words still inspire:

Tagore wrote this poem for India, before it was broken into East Pakistan and, later, Bangladesh. Still, it fits for this strange, troubled time we’re living now. We seem to be fragmenting, cut off from one another by “narrow domestic walls.” Here’s hoping the new AUW campus expands and does the poet proud.

This is for Kathy. What I wouldn’t give to wander the mall just one more time.