The Monsoon Storm

In the humid night of Bandarban, there are scraps of corrugated metal rusting in peace, laying flat on upright pieces of rotting wood. There are hundreds of them standing on dusty land. An Inhuman odour of stale urine fills the darkness- the slums are an eerie place to be.

People are staring, begging or looking for hope. As the sky gets brighter, the sun bleeds light down the mountain of Keokradong, where they look up for the spirit which gives them encouragement for the storm that lies ahead…In the humid night of Bandarban, there is a stone cottage piping cloudy smoke in a dusty field where the ravenous, black crows hover; waiting for a meal to satisfy their hunger. Some perish under the white all-knowing eye of the dark as they fall into their sooty coffin of demise. The fine fragments of dirt have created a fine blanket of dust over the deceased tea leaves.

The smell is incredible- smells of optimism, anticipation and the people fell thrilled about getting out of this dark time and getting in the wet season. Silent, still, dry- this is the field in Asia.But by late may, the stormy monsoon hits Bangladesh. A trio of months spilling water and blowing wind that is wreaking havoc all over the fire-like sub continental countries. Yet children dance, farmers sow seeds as their crops turn a luscious green. The diamond-rare-rain screams down.

Animals thrive, insects die, flooded streets, snake-like vines-farmers are ecstatic, although poor are glum.During mid monsoon in Bandarban, rain screeches down into the flooded depths of the slums. There are houses missing that gave way to the evil spirit: they tumbled over as they were beat by water and too weak to stand. Some of the lucky houses that had not yet collapsed are occupied by kind and generous souls who are huddling together to share each others body warmth. They are all looking up to the mountain as if to say ‘We don’t deserve this,’ all of them with an immensely serious look on their faces. A negative vibe pervades that infects anyone who touches it- though it was only a matter of time before the ice cold hand of death took hold of their neck and squeezes the life out of them as they squirm uncontrollably.

Death, dark, despairs; when will this depression end?During mid monsoon in Bandarban, rain screeches down into the saturated, muddy depths of the field. There is such a lush shade of green that no eye can compare; the tea crop is blooming wildly as some of the plants are competing for sunlight. Crows are forever circling the great greenery to pick up anything that they choose to gorge on during this aqueous time. The air was subdued into a musky fragrance due to the tea. Because of all these things, this just made this day simply spectacular to the people. They were singing, dancing along with dressing up in such an elaborate series of clothes and feathers.

This made the inconsequential field the most elated place in all of Bangladesh.During late summer, hope finally came to the slums (or so they thought). Over the mountain of Keokradong, blue skies were flushing out the grey cloud. Finally there’re scrutinizing at that intense scorching, incandescent sun that was visible once more. They are back to rebuilding their normal life in the slums.They can feel it.

Hope was bound to end and be replaced with despondency. Although in the field the tea is thriving evanescently along with all the black winged creatures parading merrily, although most were gone. Even they, the overseers of greenery, knew what was coming. They are going back to the dreaded blue skies.In the humid night of Bandarban, the mud tracks are drying as quickly as lightening.

There are people rebuilding houses of rusted metal and soaked wood, whilst others are scavenging for the materials of which they need to survive. Why are they so depressed? Though the monsoon is over people are still staring, begging and looking for even more hope. No one is singing or dancing- they are in a deep endless black hole… forced to suffer distress time and time again. Past the slums in which the live there are people unbeknown to them who are living such wealthy and glorious lives beyond their imagination.

A couple of them had a rucksack of that they found from the base of Keokradong lying broken open, and being rummaged, smelt, fingered and quarrelled over by people.In the humid night of Bandaraban, there are dying crops wilting in the moonlight. The sun had very quickly sucked the life and moisture of anything its beam touches. The people stare into the dark and mysterious distance with melancholy, yet again worrying of what will become of themselves and their precious field. Already the ever hungry birds have left in search for a better meal- but soon they too will decease as their stomachs churn and starvation will get the better of them. Once the merriest place in all of Bangladesh, is now back to ponder on how to get the most of this desolate wasteland of a field.

Bangladesh is a hard place to be. For the poor they look up to Keokradong awaiting the spirit to make everything better for them. But now they know there is no spirit. For years they looked and everything is the same; dark, despair, dry. They do not hope for anything now.

There is no end to the depression no matter what season it is.However, for the farmers of Bandarban they can hope that the rainy months last longer-not because of the crops but because that is the time when they are truly happy.