The Hindus love me! and My Little Sonargon

Me and Nana
Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

I was out on one of my walks the other afternoon, when I just happened to run into a Hindu family going for an afternoon stroll. I spoke to them about how upset I was that I missed Durga Puja. To my surprise and delight, they told me that there was another Hindu festival in a few days and I was welcome to join them for the festivities (although, they warned that this festival wouldn’t be quite as big as Durga Puja). How’s that for luck?

Nice Hindus.

I accepted.

The Chowdury family lives behind a beautiful old brick archway that I have often admired as I walk or ride past. As I walked through the archway, my world changed – It was like a secret being revealed before my eyes. The family “backyard” was set amongst three AMAZING old buildings, which very closely resemble those of Bangladesh’s ancient capital, Sonargon, which I visited a few months ago. Naora isn’t exactly known for its tourist attractions (although the Hindu monument at my work has never before seen the levels of tourism as it has in the past six months!), but as I quickly found out, these buildings are over six hundred years old and well worth a look.

The family welcomed me warmly and I was thankful that they’d remembered I was coming. I’d had my doubts about just walking into a house of people I didn’t know, but something my dad told me on the way to the airport in Sydney kept going around in my head: If an opportunity to do something or go somewhere comes up, you have to take it. Wise man, my dad!

I was taken on a tour of the buildings. One of them is a temple, which is still used by the family and neighbouring Hindus, the other two used to be residences, but are now just empty shells. Inside the larger residence, the walls are adorned with paintings and decorative designs carved into the archways. I was astounded.

We then walked through the smaller second residence, out the back into another Chowdury home. I was greeted with the smiling face of a 98-year-old homeopath, sitting amongst his lotions and potions and, to my surprise, Dolly from my house, who was there for a consultation - I never even knew she was into homeopathy. Crazy. Not only is the old man a homeopath, he is also the local post office clerk!! I didn’t even know we had a post office here! Talk about a bizarre new world! It felt a bit like I’d gone to Platform 9¾ and ended up in Diagon Alley.

Back at the main house, the evening was a long one, with a mixture of religious ritual and playing dress-ups. The former involved a visit to a sacred tree and gravesite, the intermittent high-pitched shrills of women waking up the gods, chanting prayers and singing in front of the household shrine and, of course, the puja itself (which was held at approximately 11pm in the temple – offerings of fruit, cakes, flowers and other goodies were made to Lakshim, goddess of wealth and prosperity; more prayers chanted and songs sung).

The latter consisted of a 2-hour sari-donning and make-up session. The girls asked me if I’d like to try on a sari. Since I’d never worn one before, I was delighted at the prospect. And besides, I figured if all the other girls were going to be in saris for puja, I didn’t want to be the odd one out. They chose a hideous pink sari for me, which I would never in a million years choose for myself, but I was having fun and just went with it.

Next, the bling bling came out. Nose rings were inserted, Churi (collective term for “bangles, bangles, bangles”) was painstakingly (and I mean PAINstakingly – I still have the graze on my thumb to prove it) squeezed over hands and up to the elbows, and “tips” (aka “bindi” - those little stickers girls put on their foreheads) were placed with pin-point precision like gunshots between the eyes.

Out came the make-up and this is where Hemma, the beautician in the family, really got to work. As sweat beads gathered on her upper lip, she powdered, lipsticked and eye-lined all the girls. I had a little lipstick added for colour, but I’m afraid I “drew the line” at the eyeliner. I don’t do eyeliner.

It really was a fun girlie time. And people kept telling me how beautiful I was, so the ego got a good massage too.

With ten women and girls looking hot-to-trot, the boys entered the room to inspect and comment as they saw fit, and to take some video footage and photos. It was at this moment that I got to catch up with an old friend: the Light. For those that don’t know or can’t remember, I first met the Light at a Muslim pre-marriage ceremony a few months ago – the Light was attached to a 7 News-style camera and we hung out for well over 10 minutes until it went and made friends with a large cow. I feel very sorry for the viewers of that wedding video (and, subsequently, this Puja video), who will have to sit through so many gruelling minutes of me sitting there like a stuck pig. However, tonight, a consensus had been drawn by all present about me in sari: I was beautiful, and I had to be caught on camera. At one point I was sitting on a chair and one of the girls made an aside comment to her sister and pointed at me – “She looks beautiful sitting like that. Take a photo like that.” I had my photo taken with everyone in the family – separately, together, sitting down, standing up, holding hands, arms around shoulders, hands placed reassuringly on stomachs, smiling faces, serious faces.

It took two hours to put on all the saris and make-up. And as soon as all the photos were taken, we took them all off again. We didn’t even leave them on for puja! I was impressed by the girls’ commitment to femininity. To go to such lengths and take such care in dressing up with jewellery, make-up and hair, and then to take it all off again so soon, was reminiscent of Buddhists sweeping away a sand mandala – these girls are impermanence connoisseurs.

The night ended for me at 11.30 pm, when two “bodyguards” from my house, Shorip and Shahajan (a man of slight build, made to look more menacing by his army-style uniform and big stick), turned up at Mr Hussain’s order to come and walk me home. But the Hindus would not hear of me leaving without being fed (again. I had been given fruit and mishti upon arrival). As I ate my rice and dhal almost the entire family smiled lovingly down upon me. I had barely got the first spoonful to my lips before I was asked how I liked it. Lucky for me, it was delicious. I’d hate to be in that situation and for the food to be inedible.

Before my bodyguards ushered me out of the 600-year-old archway, the Chowdurys invited me back again the next day, and to the next Hindu festival, and the next one after that, and the next one after that.

Finally, a Hindu family has embraced me. I feel accepted. Complete.

Roja II

3.51 am: Why am I doing this again?

The Hindus have abandoned me

Part of the reason why I wanted to stay here for another six months was so that I could really take advantage of all the exciting festivals that this country has to offer; the most exciting one being the October Durga Puja Hindu festival.

Raju and I have been taking about Durga Puja for the whole of the previous six months, discussing what a huge party it was going to be and how “all Hindus will move in Old Dhaka”. It was a done deal, as far as I was concerned, that I would spend Durga Puja in Old Dhaka with Raju and his family.

Well, not only am I not spending Durga Puja with Raju and his family (he’s gone back to his village in Bagerhart – and I am a little put out that I wasn’t invited to go with him to celebrate it there, judging by the standards of most Bangladeshis who open their village doors to Bideshis they’ve never even met before), but I don’t appear to be celebrating it at all.

Of the limited number of Hindus I know in Naora, not one has approached me to ask if I want to celebrate the great festival with them. There is apparently a big celebration in Kalibari tomorrow which, if I can’t be in Dhaka for the boat race on the Buriganga, I’d at least like to celebrate it in my own area.

However, no Hindus want a bar of me, it seems.

I’ve been invited to a total of zero Hindu weddings (and, for the record, I’ve only been invited to two Muslim weddings, neither of which I could attend, due to the short notice, so, so far my total wedding count is zip). I even crashed one of the pre-wedding Hindu rituals that I heard going on one night – so many Hindus ready to party at the wedding the following day, one obviously eager Bideshi, and NOT ONE invitation!

I am so intrigued by the Hindu religion and culture, especially as a contrast to Muslim society here, but people just don’t seem to be picking up my vibe. Am I just not putting it out there enough? Am I being some sort of closed and seemingly unwilling bideshi? Why won’t they notice me???

Yesssssssssssssssssssss

Tomatoes are back.

And the circle goes around...

The 2-year-old son of one of my co-workers is at work this morning. He was just sitting on his mum’s lap in the office, eating dates. His mum was collecting the stones in her hand as he was finishing each one. After a while, the little boy picked up one of the stones and put his hand over his head as if to throw it on the ground. His mum said, what I assumed was, “Don’t throw it darling, put it in my hand and I’ll put it in the rubbish bin.”

Oh good, I thought. With so many litterbugs in this country, it’s nice to see some parents teaching their children good litter practices.

The little boy then proceeded to put the stone into his mother’s hand.

And the mother promptly threw it on the floor.

I now assume she was actually saying, “Don’t you throw it, darling. Watch me, I’ll teach you a good rubbish-throwing method. See, you do it like this...”

Roja

In an effort to empathise with the local cause, and as a test of my own strength, I have agreed to try fasting for Ramzan today.

After having eaten a dinner of curry and rice at around 9pm last night, I set my alarm and went off to sleep. It is now 4.10 am, the pre-dawn sky is still as black as pitch and I, along with 145 million others, am getting in a final quick bite before the sun rises.

The thought of waking up at 4am to eat rice kept me in a state of semi-consciousness last night, partly out of dread at the thought of having to get up at 4am and partly out of excitement at the novelty of getting up to eat and drink huge amounts of food and water and then go back to sleep, and partly out of curiosity as to how my body would cope.

I’ve been advised to drink at least 2 litres of water at this time to hydrate my body, for the “nil-by-mouth” day that lies ahead, but while there’s a certain comfort to going back to bed with a nice full belly, a belly this full could have potential dire consequences.

The rice is being heated up on the stove as I write this, and I’ve just gone outside to wish my fellow fasters a good morning. The village is abuzz with the early morning “Sehri” ritual. Dim lights are glowing and I can hear someone singing in the distance. For most people (well, the men at least), once the eating and drinking is finished, they’ll be off to the mosque for Fajr, the first prayer of the day.

The rice is certainly tasting good, but I’ve never eaten this type of food in this quantity at this time of the day before, so my stomach isn’t sure what’s going on. I wonder how much difference this pre-fast face-stuffing will actually make tomorrow.

Rice is finished, and while I savour the last mouthful and say goodbye to food for the next 14 hours, I feel a slight lurching in my gut, which tells me that I’m definitely not accustomed to this. Additionally, the water I’ve consumed in the past half an hour has totalled approximately 400mLs, and, with my stomach as full as it can be, I doubt the last 1.6 litres will be possible, thus I fear my body may become dehydrated quickly.

At 4.42 am, the call to prayer is going out across the country. I’m taking my tummy back to bed for another few hours’ sleep, that is, if my body will cope being in a horizontal position right now. Perhaps, if there’s a next time, a cup of tea and a piece of toast will suffice for my Sehri.

It’s going to be a long day.

10.00: 7 hrs and 36 minutes to go.

So far, so good, although I yelled at a little girl this morning. This may have been a direct consequence of a belly full of rice and lack of sleep, but is more likely a result of complete loss of patience after having told her nicely no less than 15 times to move away from my window and stop watching me sleep. I was only in my underwear, and I think she was actually just dumbstruck at the sight of me. When she saw me in my undies, the usually chirpy and talkative girl was lost for words. All she could do was stare, wide-eyed and mouthed and say, “Uh.. uh.” I think I gave her a real shock when I went striding over to the window, yelling, “WHAT?? HUH?” and slamming my shutters in her face. Poor darling.

11.26: 6 hrs and 10 minutes to go.

Am still not too hungry, although I can feel myself becoming dehydrated. Am also conscious of missing my morning coffee – something I rarely do. Headache from withdrawal may be on the horizon.

12.20: 5 hrs and 16 minutes to go.

Oh, so thirsty. Saliva just not cutting it anymore.

1.10: 4 hours and 26 minutes to go.

Actually feeling ok. Got a dull feeling of hunger, but I think that excessive rice has really helped. Would love some water though.

People keep thanking me for taking part in the Roja today.

3.05: 2 hours and 31 minutes to go.

Still getting many thanks from Muslim well-wishers – it seems word has got around that I’m keeping roja today. The dialogue seems to go like this:

Muslim person: Roja aajke?
Me: Yes
Muslim person: Thank you!

Stomach is definitely rumbling now. Have a dull headache and feeling slightly sick. Also have little energy. Luckily I managed to get a lift home on a rickshaw with Nizam. The walk would not have been nice in this heat.

The upside of having a country-wide fast is that the whole country feels lethargic, so workplaces close down at 3pm. Most people (including myself) will have the final couple of hours before Iftar made a little easier by having a little nana nap.

And that’s exactly what I’m about to do.

4.50: 46 minutes to go.

After an hour or so sleep, I am feeling relatively well. Headache seems to have gone, and I don’t really feel sick anymore. Just hungry. With only a little while to go, I am starting to see the point of the HUGE meal at 4am – I have only, in the past couple of hours felt properly hungry – am really looking forward to that Iftar.

Sometime after Iftar: Well, that wasn’t so bad after all. I’ll try it again in a few days and see if it was just a fluke that my stomach managed to stay satisfied for most of the day.

Maggie's Nemesis

Maggie's Nemesis
Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

You know the evil baby in The Simpsons? She lives right near me. And her mum is one of my teachers. She laughs and smiles, until she sees me looking at her, and then she pulls this face.

Maggie's Nemesis

Maggie's Nemesis
Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

You know the evil baby in The Simpsons? She lives right near me. And her mum is one of my teachers. She laughs and smiles, until she sees me looking at her, and then she pulls this face.

Observations of Ramzan

1. Observation: Number of people spitting and number of spits observed per day: major increase, however hocking levels remain steady.
Conclusion: People need to get rid of their saliva without swallowing it. No need for hocking.

2. Observation: Crazy drivers everywhere. Speeding. Three-hour bus trip to Dhaka condensed to two.
Conclusion: Hungry drivers. People do strange things when they’re hungry.

3. Observation: People selling water mysteriously appear just before dusk on the street, in the bus. People buy water but fail to drink until ‘Iftar’ officially begins. When it does, the cracking of water bottles opening resonates far and wide. Many proud muslims scoff snacks of mishti, fruit, moori, aloo and other vegetable chops; drinking water, cha.
Conclusion: Delayed gratification is a noble cause for your God.

4. Observation: Dhaka streets are EMPTY at Iftar time.
Conclusion: When a whole country goes without food during daylight hours, there ain’t no time for driving once that sun sets!

5. Observation: Watching all the muslims fasting around me makes ME want to eat!
Conclusion: I will get fatty during Ramadan.


Things to remember when going to Iftar parties:

1. Start travelling WELL before the sun sets, because EVERYONE is trying to get to their own individual Iftar parties and the traffic is terrible.

2. If you don’t do the above, get ready to celebrate Iftar in the taxi/CNG/Ricksha. Provide adequate water and snacks to ensure a successful Plan B.


And finally...

I have been dared into ‘keeping fast’ when I go back to Naora in a few days. I told my colleagues that I would only keep fast if they threw an Iftar party for me every evening. They said they would. Bugger.

Camel Safari Man

Jaisalmer
Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

The Kindness of Strangers

A few months before I left to come to Bangladesh, I read a book called “The Kindness of Strangers”. It’s a book of short stories about travellers all over the world who had reached a difficult point in their travels, e.g. getting lost, running out of money, etc, and a stranger had come to their rescue.

I’d like to acknowledge how very poignant this concept is for me here, and while travelling around India recently, I was once again reminded of how much the kindness of strangers contributes to my life. Not only this, but so much of my life depends on trusting strangers, which is something that I didn’t actually think I did. But I do. I have to.

A few recent examples are:

 CNG drivers, who always take me where I want to go, and if they don’t know, they ask another stranger for help and they tell him;
 Ruchi – my new friend from Udaipur, India. She was our cooking teacher for 6 hours. She took Nin and I into her home and treated us like we were part of the family. She also gave me flowers and a card for my birthday – she’d only known me for 36 hours;
 Anyone on the street giving directions;
 Almost all Bangladeshis, who will go out of their way to help a struggling Bideshi – there are SO many examples of this, one in particular being a time when I left a shopping bag in a cab. As I got out, two other passengers got in. 20 minutes went by and I still hadn’t realised that my bag was lost. I was waiting in a bus station when my taxi driver suddenly reappeared and handed me my bag with all my beloved purchases that I had bought for my house. That is one example of many, many Bangladeshi strangers who have been so kind to me.
 Bus drivers – I trust all of them with my life, but especially one driver in India who I trusted enough to let him drive Nin and I home for 70kms in the dark with no headlights – I almost didn’t trust him, but he drove like a champion and we got back safe and sound;
 Camel safari man – in Jaisalmer, Nin and I went on a “non-touristic” (meaning, very few other tourists around), half-day camel safari. We trusted our guide enough to take the two of us out into the wilderness, visit some villages (to meet some more kind strangers), feed us, entertain us and then drive us back to the hotel in the pitch-black darkness, very late at night. At one stage, on the way home, he stopped the car, turned off the lights and got out. There was not another soul around, as far as I knew. I was worried. I thought, “What’s he doing?”. He told us we could have a look at the stars while he went to the toilet. And that’s exactly what he did. But he could have done anything. We were under his complete control.
 Man at the post office in Delhi who saw that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing when I was trying to send a parcel home. He guided me in the right direction, talked me through all the red tape, calico packing and wax seals and went happily on his way.

Ramzan

The holy month of Ramadan (Ramzan) is due to begin tomorrow. It was supposed to start today, but last night, “No-one sighted the moon in the sky” (Bangladesh Observer, Wednesday, 5 October 2005). So it’s starting tomorrow.

I am curious about this month. I have never witnessed a 145 million person (give or take a few Hindus) fast.

To remain respectful of the tradition yet maintain my regular routine is going to be a tricky endeavour for me. Of course, I’m not going to be stuffing my face in front of anyone, but even things like having a cup of tea or drinking water at work - things that I don’t actually associate with eating, yet are part of my normal day - are forbidden. (Actually, even swallowing one’s saliva is forbidden – during daylight hours – a fact that I learnt recently, although I imagine this is rather difficult to police. I reckon I could sneak a few of those in and no one would even notice.

Whilst it will be an interesting experience, I can’t say I’m actually looking forward to Ramadan. My life centres around food and drink so much that I’m scared I’m going to put my foot in it and do something really inappropriate, like yell out at one o’clock, “I’m STARVING! I’m going home to have lunch!” or “Mijan, cha dao!” (Mijan, bring me tea!).

I’m eagerly looking forward to the time when we can all eat openly with each other again (although I dare say that the Muslim population is looking forward to it slightly more than I am!).

The weather is a crock

How ridiculous the talk of weather is in this country. The Bangladeshis claim that they have six seasons in the year. What a load of rubbish.

Summer was supposed to be April/May (and by golly they got that right, although they failed to mention the following 4 months as well), the monsoon was supposed to be June and July. We’re now in October and it has only just started raining properly. August, September and October are supposed to be Autumn! Fat chance!

November and December are called “misty” – yet to find out what that means, but it probably just means more humidity, scorching sun and a few showers. “Winter” (if it ever actually gets here) is supposed to be January and February.* So far, I can confirm that we’ve definitely had ONE season: Stinking hot and Stinking humid.

* Please note that the word for winter in Bangla is “Shit-kal”. I wonder whether this has any connection as to the quality of the pending winter.

Walk a mile in my shoes

Look out my window and notice the beautiful 4.30 pm sun beaming through the trees. Temperature has dropped significantly. Great. Time for a walk.

Step out of the gate. Ahhhh... Fresh air! Think I’ll go a different way this time. Get to know the place a bit better.

Meet Dolly on the way out. “Where are you going?”
“Just walking. Maybe to the market afterwards.”
“Just walking? Ha ha.” She thinks I’m weird. I don’t care. Not today.

Start walking towards the market. College girls yell out hello as I walk past at speed. Notice myself taking over everybody. I look like I’m in a real hurry to buy something!

Get a few more looks than normal. Nothing’s gonna stop me today. I’ve had a spontaneous urge to exercise, so I can’t be caring about people’s staring today.

Walk through the market. It’s the first time I’ve been since getting back from India. Mr Cha yells out, “Do you want a cuppa?” No time to stop and chat.
“No thanks!” Keep walking. Keep pace.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m just walking.”
Walk past Rahul’s shop. Again, a quick wave. No stopping.
“Where are you going?”
“Just walking!”
Can feel eyes turning to watch my brisk stride through the market. I don’t care.
My eyes are fixed ahead, although I sneak a quick look at the veggie stall. What’ll I make for dinner tonight?

Right. Out of the market. Am free. Now I’m walking. How lovely it is to walk down the street and see so many familiar faces?
Inner smile beams.

There are some little kids up ahead. My eyes are still ahead, focussed on walking.
Little boy salutes, calls out, “ASALAM WALEKUM!!” Oh, what a cute little boy!
“Walekum Asalam!”
“How are you?” Wow, what lovely manners this boy has. I wonder what school he goes to?“I’m good, thank you!” I love this place.

Rickshawallah wants to know where I’m going. “Mmm. Just walking.”
“Acha [OK]. Don’t want a lift?”.
“No thanks. I need exercise.”
Keep walking.

Look around at the beautiful scenery. Aaahhh. How’s the serenity? I love this place.
Keep walking.

Come across another pair of little kids. They look dubious at my presence. O-oh. Better look like a nice person.
Outer smile beams. Little boy still looks dubious. Oh well, you can’t win ‘em all.
Keep walking.

Note the old man walking with a walking stick. He’s getting some exercise too. At least I’m not the only one.
Keep walking.

Three adolescent boys ride past on bikes. “HEEELLLOO! HOW ARE YOOOOOU?” They’re probably just showing off in front of their friends.
“I am fine.”
Sure enough, boys laugh. I hate it when they do that. Just because I’m a bideshi. No respect.
Keep walking.

Heart rate rising. Sweat beginning to surface. Getting towards the end of the road now. Turn around. Time to go back. Women come out of their house and squeal at my presence in their vicinity. “Come inside! Have a cup of tea. Where are you from?” Aren’t they lovely? Will I go in? Oh, no, better not. Need to keep walking. “Not today. Another day. Bye!”.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m just walking.”
“Acha. Why?”
“For exercise.”

Rickshawallah slows down. “You want a lift?”
“No thanks. I’m walking.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just walking.”
“Acha. Why?”
“For exercise.” People just don’t understand exercise here. That’s the problem.

See the old man with the walking stick again. “Where are you going?”
“I’m just walking. For exercise.”
“Oh, acha. Where are you from?”
“Australia.” Pace has slowed, need to keep moving.
“Oh, acha. Where do you live here?”
Have come to complete stop now. “Naora.”
“Oh, acha.”
“Do you want a ricksha?”
“No thanks. It’s ok. I’m walking for exercise.” Gotta get going.
“Oh, acha.”
“Ok, well, I’ve got to keep walking. Bye!” Nice old man.

See some of the same kids that I saw on the way. They’re a little more confident this time.
“Hello, how are you?”
“I’m good thanks.” Cuties.
Keep walking.

Get to market. It’s like coming home.
Many, many hellos and how are yous.
Buy veggies. Same limited choices as always. Potatoes, cucumber, spinach, beans. I wish I could buy tomatoes and carrots and broccoli and basil and rocket and capsicum and coriander...
See Sohel from work in Mr Cha’s shop. Love seeing familiar and friendly faces at the shops.
“Do you want a cuppa?”
“Yes I do.” What the hell – I’m nearly home.
Sit and laugh and chat. Fantastic cha!
Finish cha. Time to go.

Walk down my street. College girls have seen me and make their way to cut me off before I get there. Guess I’ll be staying for a chat.
Chatting in Bangla to the college girls. Many girls asking many questions. I do my best. It’s very hard to understand when so many people talk at the same time. What did she say? Who said that? Oh...
“I don’t understand.”
Girls giggle. Repeat themselves, all together. Nup. Still don’t get it.
“I don’t understand.”
Girls giggle again, with more gusto this time. Now I’m feeling really stupid. If you’d speak a bit slower, I’d be able to get it.
“Um... one more time?”.
More giggling. It’s not funny. I’m trying as hard as I can. I don’t need this today.
“OK, I’m going. Bye!”
Giggling. I don’t turn back. Keep walking. Grrrr. This place drives me crazy sometimes!

See little neighbour near my house.
“Hi aunty!” Oh, how cute!
I love this place.

Notice pink sky and how much the paddies outside my gate have grown since I went to India.
I love this place.


Note to self: 1. Do Bangla practice tonight. 2. Come up with another interesting recipe for potatoes, cucumber, spinach and beans.

A mouldy invasion of the five senses...

My mould problem has managed to make its presence known in all aspects of my being.

Sight: I can see it pretty much everywhere: covering my brand new shoes in a green layer 3mm thick, growing across my beloved photos on my wall (Kevin and I have almost disappeared and Michael Franti, AB, Dana and I are beginning to go), invading every piece of clothing that I own, creeping onto my yoga mat, making itself at home on my chair and walls.

Smell: Constant smell of dampness in my room, my bed, my clothes, my books.

Touch: Furry clothing, damp papers, slimy shoes, sticky photos.

Taste (yes, taste): So far the taste of the smell of mould has seeped into my tea bags, my chapattis that Anju makes for me in the morning, my mustard seeds and my curry leaves. It was so subtle that I was not able to smell the mould before I ingested it. I was shocked to find that my Lady Grey tea and chapattis tasted curiously like the smell of my sheets.

Sound: While the mould hasn’t actually started talking to me (yet), its persistence in its existence has been the cause of the sound of my reaction to it turning from “tut tut” to “grrrrrr” to “aaaaaggggggggghhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!”

And, late at night, sometimes I swear I can hear it growing... creeping along the walls... over the ceiling... surrounding me...