The Shoe Project: Shoe Story

In search of the ruins

His name was Belal. I met him in Barobazar, a city in the southwestern part of Bangladesh. His eyes were bigger than usual, and he had long eyelashes- a feature not usually found in Bangladeshi males. Other than that, there was no reason you can distinguish Belal in a sea of people.

We went there on a school project. There were four of us, two girls and two boys. The other girl, Nitu, and the two boys won a grant to study the architectural ruins of Barobazar. But the girl's parents wouldn't allow her to travel with two boys. Hence, I was accompanying her. As if, my presence would magically stop her from having sex with the boys and protect her virginity, aka innocence of character. Or, come to think of it, if those boys wanted to rape her, I was the only reason they'd be not able to. Choice, freedom, and self-control are some of the concepts that were absent in the mental realm of our parents in those days, especially when it comes to girls. The irony is, if anything, now there's an equal division of mating partners in our group. If it was a social experiment- this pairing would make it so easy. We didn't have sex on that trip though, we were friends. And we really liked each other. Also, pre-marital sex is a big no-no in Bangladesh. 

Let's get back to Belal. We got off the bus in Jhenaidah and looked for the nearest tea stall. It was hardly a five feet by five feet temporary structure which seemed like it was there forever. The wooden floor was raised a couple of feet above the ground, where the owner was seating with a fat red register book on his lap. In front of the stall, two wooden benches were placed facing each other where we sat. Belal was sitting on one of the benches, next to Haque. After a minute or two, he jumped right into our conversation, "What are you going to see here? There is nothing to see in Jhenaidah." 

He was genuinely curious. No one can turn down the combination of simplicity and curiosity. We couldn't either. After learning what we came here to do, Belal couldn't make sense of why someone would want to see some earthen mounds that were lying there forever. It was beyond his understanding. But, he didn't judge us.  Instead, he willingly wanted to be our guide.  "I am unemployed right now, which is why I am drinking tea here at this time of the day." He chuckled at his own jokes. "Besides, you don't know anything here, and I know almost all the areas. Most people here know each other too." Who would turn down such a generous offer? Of course, he could ask for money later, or scam us somehow- but we already have a budget for guides. After a brief internal conversation, we agreed he'll join us. His big eyes were shining with happiness. Was he happy to make new friends? Or, it was the sheer happiness of helping others? Who knows.

For the next seven days, we woke up at 6 o'clock, had an early breakfast, took a rickshaw to Barobazar, and meet Belal there. Belal would wait for us by the tea stall, in his oversized black trouser, and his worn-out faded black sandals. Barobazar used to be a city of mosques. 14 mounds had been excavated, and at least seven mosques are still under the ground. It's heaven for archeologists. Why would people need so many mosques in this close vicinity? How many people used to live here in ancient times?-was a question I carried around on this trip.  

Belal accompanied us to every site we went to. Every time we took photos, measured the mounds, or collected samples- he was there. And boy, he loved to talk! He grew up around here, so he had a story to tell about almost everything. By the end of this trip, I knew how many siblings he had, the school he went to, and how many friends he played hide and seek with around these ancient ruins. While we measured the ruins of the forgotten mosques, he hold the other side of our measuring tapes, helped us remember the numbers, and reminded us of the parts we might have skipped otherwise. While we collected samples of soil and bricks, he told us stories about his life, his family, and his friends.

On our sixth day, he told us about Luna. We went to Pathagar Mosque, which was dressed in red brick with bands of ornamental detailings on its octagonal turrets. Moss grew here and there as if the mosque was wearing tattoos. In Bengali, Pathagar means library. During the Sultanate period, this mosque used to be a library or was a library-centric mosque. Muslim scholars gathered here to research Quran and Hadith. Belal took us inside through the arched entrance. He showed us the remnant of the mihrab. There were no paints or wall claddings, only naked bricks stared at us with nostalgia. The lime-terraced floor was almost gone. It was interesting to see, how locals started arranging their newly formed habitats around this ancient structure. It almost seemed like, time tried to heal itself by creating around its forgotten wound. 

There was a large pond in front of the mosque. There was no grandeur, no glamour attached to it, just a large calm water body covered in bright yellow-green water hyacinth. The contrast between a 700-year-old mosque clad with red brick and the bright yellow-green pond was somehow surreal. Belal was awfully quiet this morning. Usually, he has a lot of stories to tell. I guess, the fact that this beauty that needed years of labor to be built- now standing all alone- forgotten, and lost- made all of us melancholic.

Belal was helping me with the measuring tape when I asked, "Haven't you ever been here before?" To my surprise, he got all choked up. And then slowly, he opened up. Turned out, this cheerful guy who has been talking continuously about something and everything for the last five days has been hiding a wound inside his heart. 

And then I heard the most beautiful love story. As per many other love stories, his one also ended in tragedy. Luna was her childhood friend. They grew up together, went to the same school. ate rice from the same plate. Their parents did not accept them as lovers. Luna, the love of his life was forced to marry someone else, a couple of years ago. "I can't forget her Apa. They married her off to the other guy because I didn't have a job. She was so smart, Apa! So damn pretty! We used to come here on our dates. This place was far away from both our families. We sat beside this pond and planned for our future. I didn't have any money back then. She bought me these ones." He pointed to his rugged, worn-out sandals that he has been wearing ever since we knew him. "I know I have to get a new pair, I just never had the guts to do it."

I don't remember what I said to him inside that gloomy, mysterious interior of the mosque. But we came outside as friends. His story was extraordinarily ordinary. It was beautiful cause it was true, came from his heart, and was told by his big beautiful eyes. I was privileged to know his story.

At the end of our trip, we discussed we should get something to Belal as a token of our gratitude. "Money", said the boys. "That's what he needs the most". Nitu and I agreed, but we also wanted to get him something special, something to remember us by. On our last day, we took him to a shoe store.

"Belal Bhai, it's time to move on. Which one do you like the most?"

His big eyes teared up, "I will miss you, Apa." He chose the most generic, least expensive pair of shoes. I learned that even the most ordinary shoe has an amazing story inside, no matter how worn out they are. 

Reference:

Barobajar: An ancient city of mosque
Tracing the Journey of Khan Jahan Ali from Barobazar to Bagerhat by Fatiha Polin, 2019