Its been a month since I started my own Bollywood movie, and I'm still waiting for it to end. I've had two days of peace (hooray!) and lets hope I haven't jinxed it by talking about it.

A very nice couple from Hong Kong stopped by the office - a photographer and his wife does psychology work with NGOs. I thought it was rather nice/strange how they didn't automatically assume I was of the same race until they saw my namecard. Lim? You're Chinese?

Then I started apologising, the way I always do, for my poor Mandarin and non-existent Cantonese - but they assured me that they weren't that fluent in Mandarin either. It was nice, how we instinctively switched to speaking in Mandarin even though we seemed to communicate a lot more fluently in English.

I watched Wolfgang Haffner live in concert (with the Haffner-Trio) a couple of hours ago. I've never seen a drummer smile so much. After the week I've had, I think I really needed this.

Excerpts (Part II)

MY PARENTS WEIGH IN ON THE JACK NEO SITUATION

(*Note for non-Singaporean friends:
JN is a Singaporean film director whose affair with
a young girl was recently splashed all over the papers.)

(*Excerpts Part I)

Dad: Your mommy so lucky I'm not rich and famous.

Mom: Oh please, only the cats want you.

Dad: But then you, as a man with FOUR kids - your son is already 19 years old!!! - you blardy hell still go and take advantage of young girl! Damn blardy buaya lah.

Dad: (to Mom) Why you never say anything bad about Jack Neo.

Mom: Aiyah I don't pity the girls man. Come on. You know he is married with children - what you expect? In the first place, they are also in the wrong.

Dad: If the girl was smart enough, she should have taken him to the point of fucking blackmail man. "Try anything funny, I will expose you!" Now, expose already, how to get anything out of him. At least get some money out of it lah.

Mom: For heaven's sake, go and blackmail the Dubai king's son lah. Of all people go and blackmail Jack Neo? I don't even think he is that rich. Aiyah stupid lah. Make a fool of themselves.

Me: Why is Pa siding with the girls?

Mom: Aiyah Pa is always like that. But to me, they are stupid. They are not so gullible. Nowadays, 18 or 19-year-old girls... wah you hold my hand and tell me I'll be Fann Wong number two? Who is so stupid to believe that man? You think what? Writing a book ah? Even Ah Lian also not so stupid.

Mom: Ok lah, at least ST reporter got story to write now, otherwise they have no job. (Laughs)

Mom: Ya, America had their Tiger, but Singapore is Lion City, so we got Lion here. Want to see next week how many more girls pop out?

Dad: You know what is his next movie? One Hole No Enough.

I personally don't care about this at all, but I brought up the topic intentionally because I knew the soundbites would be hilarious.

So, ahem, maybe this is what equality means: that my 54-year-old mother thinks the mistress is 'shameless' and 'stupid', and my 56-year-old father thinks the married man is a lying sonabitch.

Apologies for crude and harsh language - runs in the family.

Women's Day

I've been enjoying Dorothy Surrenders for some time now - mainly because I love the writing, because I love fawning over the same women they fawn over, and because reading that blog makes me feel like I'm talking to a friend who gets me. Plus, where else am I going to get my fix of androgyny?

And thus, in tribute to International Women's Day - I decided to read all Buffy-related posts on the blog, and intend to fall asleep to the sounds of Season 7. The logic may seem rather strained, but well, it makes sense to me.

I have two younger women working with me, aged 24 and 22, and I love them to bits. We rarely talk in the office, but a couple of days ago I had some time alone with them and asked them how they handled the "eve-teasing" (I really shouldn't use that word) situation here in Dhaka.

As a bideshi, I have the luxury of fighting back. Either by acknowledging remarks with a glare or a stare-down, or a good old-fashioned slap. As locals, their only option is to ignore the cat calls and lewd comments.

I found out that just days earlier, the younger one had been grabbed by four guys on motorbikes who blocked her as she was walking to work. She said they grabbed at her, and there was no one around. She was so scared, she did not know what to do. The guys left when some other pedestrians came by.

The other told me that the last time she tried to confront a guy who had said something rude to her, a crowd gathered and she ended up feeling embarrassed and ridiculed because the guy simply denied having said anything.

"If we say anything, we get in trouble." The two girls laughed it off and giggled while talking to me. It seemed they are so used to it that they regard it as just another instance of how ridiculous life can be.

And yet, when I told them about how a friend had smashed a phone (guy trying to show us porn videos on the street) and how I slapped someone -- their glee was unmistakable. They were overjoyed that we had done those things, and I wonder if they wished they could do it too.

Yesterday, I hinted/suggested/ordered the men in the department to GET US SOME CAKE - and they did. I wish I had planned something better than this.

I'll admit that I never really thought much of having a special day for women - in the same way I find Valentine's Day, Friendship Day, and all those other Days basically meaningless. But I suppose I only thought like that because I had the luxury of never needing to be reminded that I had rights, to be reminded that equality was still something we had to strive for, to be reminded that things have to change.

Today, as I sat in an office filled with laughter and the sounds of people enjoying free cake, and I listened to this speech by Joss Whedon, I realised its time for me to arrange for a Buffy marathon in my house.

I love his words so much I wanted to write it down. In his speech, Joss reenacts his replies to the question he is always asked during press junkets:

So, why do you write these strong women characters?

Why are you even asking me this? (This is like ) How is it possible that this is even a question? Honestly, seriously. Why did you write that down? Why aren't you asking a hundred other guys why they don't write strong women characters? I believe what I'm doing should not be remarked upon, or even honoured... But seriously, this question is ridiculous, and you've just got to stop.


So, why do you write these strong women characters?

Because. Equality is not a concept, it is not something we should be striving for. It is a necessity. Equality is like gravity. We need it to stand on this earth as men and women. And the misogyny that is in every culture is not a true part of the human condition, it is life out of balance, and that imbalance is sucking something out of the soul of every man and woman who is confronted with it.

We need equality. Kinda now.

So, why do you write these strong women characters?

Because you are still asking me that question.

Epic.

I don't know if this qualifies as a Fail or a Win, but this explains everything.

President, PM's pay near doubled

Dhaka, Mar 8 (bdnews24.com)

The cabinet on Monday approved a huge pay hike for the president, prime minister, ministers, chief justice and Supreme Court judges, of up to 83 percent.

The president's monthly salary will jump from Tk 33,400 to Tk 61,200. The prime minister's will rise from Tk 32,000 to Tk 58,600.

Once you get over the shock of a EIGHT-THREE PERCENT PAY RISE - you realise that a Bangladeshi construction worker in Singapore earns almost the same amount as his Prime Minister.

Of course, the S$640 the Prime Minister of Bangladesh used to earn does not include the other substantial financial perks she receives. I've seen her around - she's not doing too badly for herself.

But still. I can almost hear LKY saying, "See? Told ya."

The Daily Untruth Project

I've decided to tell one deliberate lie everyday to make everyone's lives all that more interesting.

There are pink bananas in South America.

After I told the lie, I realised that my friends with dirty-minded friends would have a lot to snigger about, but I work with really sweet folks who didn't take that route. I promise tomorrow's lie will not be fruit-related. Maybe something about unproven scientific theories. For instance, did you know that the whip is the first man made device capable of exceeding the sound barrier? I had no idea.

After I returned, I saw a pigeon in a cage, hanging in the balcony of the house across from the rooftop of my office. Birds in cages are generally depressing, and the size of this cage made this a particularly dismal example. Maybe they saved it from certain death and are nursing it back to health. Sometimes I try to go against my nature and refrain from negative judgement. But after seeing someone stomp on the neck of a German Shepherd last week, and that incident of the overweight monkey (did I ever tell you about the monkey that was so fat it couldn't move?) -- well, let's just say I've been given the impression that the concept of pet ownership is rather different here.

Still! Guess what. I spoke to the nice girl who lives in that house (rooftop conversations across buildings are always fun) and it turns out that I was right. That bird don't fly so good no more. Right on cue, the pigeon clumsily flew out of the living room onto the balcony, perching itself on a box and seeming rather content.

OK Go has a new video and it is pretty. This too shall pass? Sure, if you say so.

There's a funny thing that bideshis here say sometimes - that nothing in Bangladesh is real. Or maybe this is a statement I made up myself, and made myself believe that someone else uttered it so that I could repeat it guiltlessly.

Anyway, this is likely less to do with the country and more to do with the bideshis themselves. To have come so far to a place so unlike their home, that they end up having no point of reference when they leave. Sometimes, it feels like the things that happened here never took place at all.

I felt like this when I went back to Singapore. I tried bringing up Dhaka in conversations, to reintroduce that point of reference so I wouldn't feel so unanchored, so lost. It worked sometimes, especially with those who had felt similar sentiments at some point in their lives. More often than not, I felt like I was recounting a dream - an interesting conversation point with no real consequence.

A few days ago, I did something on impulse that has very real consequences. I broke someone's heart - and I say that in the least melodramatic way possible. But the truth is really that severe, and my actions will likely alter someone's life in a way that had never been contemplated or considered by either of us.

This is a lesson I learnt from the past - that I don't do anything if I don't act on impulse, if I don't follow my gut. Because with time, my brain thinks too much and I'm pretty good at talking myself out of just about any difficult decision I have to make.

So I suppose it was a good thing that I didn't stop to consider the consequences before I did what I did, and said what I said. If I had any inkling or suspicion about just how bad it could get, you can be damned sure that I would have no trouble easing myself off that platform.

What's done is done, and I can only hope that time will do its magic and help us make sense of everything again.

I'll tell ya this much kiddos, wearing dentures suck. I know I'll get used to it over time, but I guess this is one of those things, that I don't really want to get used to.

I also can't believe they are now going to form a committee to figure out what to do about all those accidents along Upper Thomson Road. A new overhead bridge? Or traffic lights? Or underpass? Choices, choices.

I also can't believe the amount of vehemence some of my friends show towards workers from China. I'd understand the anger if they had lost jobs or money because of these workers, but it seemed like they just dislike having them around. Dislike them serving them in hawker centers, dislike them showing up in their clinics, dislike them living next door to them in the HDB estate.

I read a bit of Alex Tan's blog to try and understand the angst about foreigners being in Singapore. However, his criticisms were directed towards the government's policies and how Singaporeans were directly affected by the influx of migrant workers. My friends are, for lack of a better word, xenophobic bastards.

To be fair, I know half of what they said don't mean anything - guys sometimes have a tendency say stupid things when they gather together and too much testosterone is in the air. Apparently they are rude and 'uncivilised' - but I would argue that there are plenty of Singaporeans who match that description as well.

No hope for the human race indeed. From Shadakalo blog (http://shadakalo.blogspot.com/2010/01/rapists-fatwas-and-lack-of-justice.html):

Daily Star is reporting that:

Eight months after being raped, a 16-year-old at Khargor of Kasba upazila in Brahmanbaria had to receive 101 lashes as "punishment".

A village arbitration found her guilty and issued the 101 lashes fatwa (religious edict) but amazingly left alleged rapist Enamul Mia, 20, untouched.

The arbitration also fined the victim's father Tk 1,000 and issued another fatwa that her family would be forced into isolation if he failed to pay up.

Village matbar (local leader) Delwar Hossain alias Ullashi executed the durra (lashes) on January 17.

I don't know what hell the rapist will burn in, but I am sure he will be joined there by Mr. Delwar Hossain, who was the judge, jury and executioner against this girl.

Madam Prime Minister and Madam Home Minister: you are women. You have also taken an oath to uphold the constitution of this country. Please, in the name of all that you hold holy and dear, wake up and defend this girl.

She has been raped and became pregnant. The news report mentions pregnancy upto 7 months and a subsequent abortion. Such late-term abortions are considered high-risk even in the USA.

But after all that, the rapist is walking around a free man because, according to the local matbors, "he belongs to another village" while this girl was beaten until she fainted. Her father was also fined Taka 1000, which presumably the matbors will spend on partying.

Full marks to Daily Star for refraining from posting the name and a picture of the victim. Have they finally realised that girls and women don't deserve to have their faces splashed across national newspapers when they have been raped/attacked with acid? Hooray for some decency!

I had a dream last night Cedar Rapids

This is very random, but I think a highlight of my life would be attending a live concert of NIN, Marilyn Manson and Lady Gaga. I have goosebumps just thinking about it.

The theme of my week so far - being true to yourself.

Helping along with the theme is having Lady Gaga on repeat mode. God help me, I love that woman.

I find it hard to describe how it feels when you realise all the money you've saved over the last couple of years will go up in smoke because of the events of a single night. The business of fixing the teeth is proving to be a lot more complicated than expected. Decisions, choices -- none of which are straightforward, none of which are cheap.

Given my rather dismal number of friends, I'm lucky to have a dentist and a doctor amongst them to turn to for help -- my only regret is that I have little professional expertise to offer in return, and my lifelong gratitude will have to suffice.

I removed the metal wire today, and thought to myself how strange it was that I had already gotten used to its presence after only two weeks. Every day, I discover new kinds of food that require the use of your incisors (noodles, chicken wings, anything on a stick) and I think I must look quite a sight, slurping noodles from the side of my mouth. Well, at least no one can say I lack determination.

I made my first visit to Orchard Rd today, and found the number of new malls to be, quite frankly, ridiculous. Gerry and I were trying to find each other and I felt it hilarious to be saying "Are you near Prada?" while I was feeling lost in front of Dior. Have a very strong urge to reread Debord's essay now, which I have stored in my laptop as a Word Document. Call me traditional, but I think essays like his should never be allowed to exist as Word Documents, but forever be read off brown parchment paper.

It seemed to me that this was the whole point of travelling - to arrive alone, like a spectre, in a strange country at nightfall, not in the brightly lit capital but by the back door, in the wooded countryside, hundreds of miles from the metropolis, where, typically, people didn't see many strangers and were hospitable and did not instantly think of me as money on two legs. Life was harder but simpler here - I could see it in the rough houses and the crummy roads and the hayricks and the boys herding goats. Arriving in the hinterland with only the vaguest plans was a liberating event.

-- Paul Theroux, Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

Ho-hum. In case anyone thinks I'm getting reflective on my birthday, I'm also listening to Flight of the Conchords sing about Robots taking over the world. Shut their motherboard existence down!

Huddled under the shadows in Jaal cafe, I tried my best to position my opened book under the very inadequate lamp they had hanging up on the wall. Literally a hole in the wall, Jaal (meaning spicy in Bangla) is claustrophobic and dark - the latter being deliberately so, as it probably makes the place all the more popular with dating couples seeking respite from the public eye. Even in the daytime, couples can find a little privacy for some under-the-table action, resulting in many sheepish-looking teenagers leaving the cafe with slightly tousled hair and rumpled clothes.

Even though I would have preferred a cheerier, brighter place, Jaal is also less than a hundred meters away from my apartment, making it an ideal stop for dinner when I felt too tired or lazy to cook. I also enjoyed the privacy inherent in the place, but only if I managed to get that seat under that single, solitary lamp.

The waiters there know me very well after a year of semi-regular visits from me, and try their best to give me good service. Still, Dhaka will always be Dhaka, and I was told my favourite dish of grilled chicken wasn't available, only to be told 15 minutes later that, oh, so sorry, we missed it out in the fridge, we have it after all. When the meal was finally served, I had to send it back as the chicken was not entirely cooked. I felt sorry for the waiter - clearly, he wanted to treat me well and was exasperated by the comedy of errors. I believe it is extremely useful to have a sorrowful-looking face if working as a waiter here in Dhaka.

Familiar with the amount of waiting required in Jaal, I had come armed with Paul Theroux's Ghost Train to the Eastern Star, yet another parting gift from the wondrous Linda. The chicken finally arrive (again), and after some careful maneuvering, I had my book stuck open in front of me, pages held open by my plate in a style that I had practiced and honed over many, many years of reading at the dinner table (something that irked my father to no end).

The tables were mostly empty tonight. A boisterous gathering had just left, and for a while it was just me, my book and some English pop music that I didn't recognise. A couple made their way past me to the last booth at the back. I tried to sneak a peek a while later - two coffee mugs and a packet of cigarettes were placed in front of them as they chatted and smoked, the girl holding her cigarette as you would a pencil.

After my meal, I finished up the chapter I reading and asked for the bill which came up to 275 tks (S$5.60) for grilled chicken and rice with a glass of orange juice. A pricier place by local standards, but I suppose I am really paying for the chance to enjoy a slow, leisurely, book-filled dinner. In Dhaka, I always feel like I have a time limit when I eat in small, local restaurants. There isn't the usual hanging-around that I am used to. Food is served very quickly, and your plate is cleared the moment your hands clean up that last bit of rice on your plate. As you beckon for the bill, the waiter is already cleaning down the table and beckoning the next batch of customers to come over to the table.

I left a 20 tks tip - generous by my standards, since I don't usually tip. But alas, for selfish reasons: I think its about time some good karma flowed my way.

From list of terms and conditions when you book a flight on AirAsia:

• Guests can no longer carry guns and/or ammunition on flights to or from Indonesia.

Always useful info to have.

According to the ambulance driver - who heard it from the folks who were around the scene of the accident - a bus had suddenly cut into our path and forced us off the road.

Since I remember absolutely nothing from the accident, and I'm not a big fan of third-hand accounts, I'm not sure what to believe. I was actually quite happy not to know, since knowing makes me want to place blame, and I think its difficult to remain POSITIVE and OPTIMISTIC when channeling evil thoughts to a random bus driver.

Truthfully, I really don't quite care to know the details of the accident. Its over and done, and knowing doesn't really accomplish anything.

I've been on a diet of soft-everything: mashed potatoes, congee, minced chicken, boiled vegetables, half-boiled eggs etc. This morning I decided THIS IS NO WAY TO LIVE and chopped up little bits of sausage and had it with scrambled eggs. So there.

Enough ranting - back to work.

It finally happened.

After years of living my life as if I was invincible - indulging in the worst practices, ignoring health, forsaking safety, scoffing at precautions, I used to tell people that it was bound to happen eventually.

Not once in my twenty-seven months in Bangladesh did I ever come close to a close-call. Sure I had that sprained ankle two months into my stay, but it healed up pretty quick within a month (no heels for a year, but that isn't exactly a loss), and the occasional flu and fever, but nothing that could compare with the various maladies and accidents I had seen in my stay here.

Two nights ago (in the wee morning hours on the 11th, to be exact) I was in a road accident which left me unconscious, only to wake up in an ambulance wondering to myself if I was dreaming.

That I had made it out alive is pretty much a miracle. That no car/bus/truck had come along and ran over my body while I lay on the road, that none of my belongings were stolen/lost, that my head is still in one piece, that I have not been blinded or maimed, that I still have all my limbs -- I'm pretty fucking lucky.

I have absolutely no recollection of what happened. Not even the faintest memory of a crash, or an impending crash, or being lifted and carried into the ambulance.

The police and RAB happened to be at that corner in Bijoy Sarani, but it was a passing ambulance that stopped to help bring us Sorawadi Hospital nearby in Shaymoli. We were then sent off to the Dhaka Medical College and Hospital, where they did an X-ray of my chest and gave me a jab of painkillers, and was sent home in a CNG. I was likely still in shock throughout the entire process, and felt calm and peaceful.

The damage today is as such: severe abrasions to the face, hands, left hip and left knee. Three broken teeth, one missing tooth (it was such a clean extraction that it seemed that someone had pulled it out for me with a plier).

The skin will heal, as the abrasions are 'clean' and not messy. Whatever scarring is left will likely subside over time if I can reel in the urge to pick at the scabs.

Once the facial swelling goes down, I will have to tackle the biggest problem of fixing my teeth. Crowns? Dentures? What? I have no idea. I will do the preliminary checks and X-rays here, and head back to Singapore to get the permanent work done.

I am trying not to think about work -- but needless to say, everything is going to shit on that end because of this. I will manage it the best I can, but I'm not so sure people want to buy photos from a person with a face like this.

Tragic Excuse of an Update

I've been listening to Nutsie's automatic lists, such as "Top 100 Songs of XXXX", and -- if you can get over your incredulity at my ability to stream music on my 0.02 Mb/s connection -- I've realised that XXXX always ends up in the range of 198X to 199X. I am a musical dinosaur.

That very precise figure of 0.02 is thanks to Speedtest.net - a website that tells me what my actual connection speed is. The site took 10 minutes to load, and the irony is not lost on me.

Linda -- Finnish capoeira teacher and all-round extraordinaire -- leaves tomorrow for Christmas in Mexico with her boyfriend and then heads for a two-year contract in Tanzania. Sometimes, a little corner of my brain indulges in fantasies about fucking up so badly that I get fired and thus get to leave with no obligations. There I've said it.

Linda also gladly unloaded free junk on me -- a book titled Wayward Girls and Wicked Women, an unused light tube, assorted spices, an espresso thingamajig and a yoga mat. This was after I told her Chinese people loved receiving free shit. I'm not sure if that stereotype even exists (recalling long Hello Kitty queues make me think I may be on the right track), but I needed to blame my shamelessness on something.

I've also managed to succeed in obtaining a wireless router after a year of saying "I'll get it". I didn't actually head down to the store itself since the stores here close before I finish work. Bangladeshi corporate types would typically 'send a peon'. I typically 'freeloaded off a friend in the area'.

The word 'peon' didn't exist for me until I came here. I may have read it in some book before, but I certainly never came across it in everyday language. It really isn't the most glamorous word.

I need to get some things straight in my head, so do pardon the verbal dump:

How do I explain to a client that my predecessor was a fucked-up excuse of a salesman, and while it may seem that I'm raising the rates - I am actually updating prices which haven't been updated in 10 fucking years? How do I explain that my predecessor had no authority to release photos for exclusive usages? How do I explain why a photograph costs more if you want exclusive rights to it? Isn't it obvious? Do I really need to explain this?

I am so tired of paying for someone else's mistakes.

Sometimes, photographers need to seek out content to 'fit' a story. It could be a simple portrait to illustrate a story about a child, or an aerial shot to go with something about urban sprawl. Black water for pollution, beggars for poverty. The process sometimes works this way - almost as if in reverse. We fix the content, and search for the visual that goes with it.

Clearly - this doesn't help in terms of visual stereotyping. By actively searching out the most obvious frame, we continue to feed the system of quick judgments and loose associations.

The (very exhausted) team had just completed an assignment which required us to work in this content-first-visuals-second manner. The content? Mismanagement of taxpayers' money. The visuals? Oh boy, did we have a list. From schools to roads, traffic to post offices - it seemed like the wish list of images would never end.

I sent the team out to shoot, and worried about the whole idea of visual stereotyping. What if they were to "force" out a visual when there was none? To "imply" an association when it was a weak link? To over-dramatise and exaggerate a situation just to make it seem bleaker, more negative, more depressing?

As I browsed through the raw takes from their three-day shoot, I realised I had forgotten that Dhaka was a city that required no exaggeration.

Not when patients in the main government-run hospital have to resort to sleeping on the dirty, damp floor of corridors and under staircases. Lying next to their IV drips next to them, with tubes coming out of their noses and covered with a flimsy blanket brought from their own home - I couldn't exaggerate the situation even if I tried.

Even more painful to see was the expressions on the faces of family members camping out next to their loved ones. Worry, fatigue, hopelessness - and even a little anger, I think. I don't mean to be insulting to anyone, but I highly doubt that this is a hospital that people with choices would choose to come to.

Is depressing.

Random Observations

A t-shirt with the words MIT SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM do not look good when stretched across a pair of man boobs and paired with a khaki safari hat.


Old men with big egos don't like to be ignored.

Young men hate it when their compliments are met by an angry stare.


News photogs that shoot in raw ought to be shot.

"Working fine now" is code for "Will break down in approximately two weeks"

Four young dudes can finish a bottle of vodka in 2 hours.

There are only 24 hours in a day.

Last Words

The Texas Department of Criminal Justice posts the last statements of death row convicts. (via Slate)

November 10, 2009
Offender: Valle, Yosvanis
"I am sorry, I never wanted to kill your family. I never wanted to kill your family or these people. I am sorry for the way I talk in English. I did it to myself... Thank you brother, don't hate nobody, I feel good. I love my family, I love you Jesus. Be strong mama, I love you sister. I love Jesus. Warden I am ready.

October 27, 2009
Offender: Blanton, Reginald
Last Statement:
Yes I do. I know ya'lls pain, believe me I shed plenty of tears behind Carlos. Carlos was my friend. I didn't murder him. This what is happening right now is an injustice. This doesn't solve anything. This will not bring back Carlos. Ya'll fought real hard here to prove my innocence. This is only the beginning. I love each and everyone dearly. Dre My queen. I love you. Yaws, Junie I love yall. Stay strong, continue to fight. They are fixing to pump my veins with a lethal drug the American Veterinary Association won't even allow to be used on dogs. I say I am worse off than a dog. They want to kill me for this; I am not the man that did this. Fight on. I will see ya'll again. That's all I can say.

There is also a link so that you can see the background information on each and every single person executed. This has to be one of the most harrowing, disturbing and yet meticulously-kept public record.

STOP PRESS JUST GOT MY HANDS ON REVOLUTIONARY ROAD GOD BLESS YOU COLIN FOR BRINGING IT ALL THE WAY FROM LONDON SINCE NO BOOKSTORE HERE HAS IT AND NOW I LOOK FORWARD TO A NIGHT OF NOT SLEEPING OH HAPPINESS

i write this with the expectation of receiving ridicule, since I was only a photographer in the newsroom for less than a year. My friends are still working there, and those who have left did so with years of experience under their belt.

Even with my dismally short tenure, I have never forgotten the sense of camaraderie in that place. Of course, I realise now that I had been insulated from the myriad of flaws that come with working with a large corporation. As a freelancer, I didn't have to think about staff evaluations, about the promise of promotions, about pay increases, about claiming days off. I was young, desperate to be wanted - I would have worked every day if they asked me to.

I write this now because I just finished an unpleasant argument with someone who accused me of working too hard. It is something that people say a lot about me here, but I suppose that only I am privy to the truth.

I have learnt when to shut off, when to close down that computer, when to say enough is enough. I don't feel like i have to prove anything anymore, and I do not feel guilty when I choose not to reply that email that has been sitting in my inbox for too long.

This is something very difficult to do, as I am surrounded by people whom the title of 'workaholic' does not justice. These folks work from 8 in the morning till past midnight, and still feel like they haven't done enough.

My point is - I am not like that. I did that for the first couple of months, but such a workload left me utterly broken and useless. And so, I stopped it.

I now have to break that little pact I made with myself.

The news agency was meant to be separate - an independent entity that was silently supported by the main organisation. Due to mismanagement and a whole host of other reasons, the news agency was struggling to stay afloat. Radical changes were needed if it were to survive.

My boss - the one who had started everything - had somehow come to believe that my incredibly short work experience as a news photographer meant that I had the expertise to lead a news agency.

And I, echoing Joo's everlasting words of wisdom "Better me than anyone else", readily agreed.

My department was already struggling with the workload we had - with all my time spent on fixing day-to-day matters, I could barely find the time to plan the much needed long-term brand and vision for the department. And still, I couldn't say no.

The small news team moved in five days ago. Three young men that had miraculously continued to stay with the sinking agency even though they were paid miserable salaries to work seven days a week. They had a certain air of desperation that was all too familiar. One of them had howled in protest when I said I was planning to start putting them in shifts. The thought of not being called on for a job, and thus missing out on a shoot, was completely unacceptable to him.

And so, I now lead a team of eight and an agency that distributes stock, editorial and news imagery. Shutting off is fast becoming an impossible option.

But there is now a new vigor in the room. These boys do not leave when the clock strikes 5 in the afternoon. Inappropriate jokes, sarcastic remarks about politicians, callous comments about bomb explosions, the question "Did anyone die?", the familiar rush rush rush to get things done, spell names right, dig up the background facts -- forgive my sentimentality, but I felt I had come home.

I suppose this nostalgia will wear off in a couple of months, after the bullshit had piled up and the realisation that WE ARE NOT MAKING A DIFFERENCE has set in -- but till then, I'll be damned if I don't enjoy every last second of this.

In about two and a half hours I will find out if I need to go to Nepal on a visa run.

Showdown

So I think I ended up spamning everyone on Facebook today - many apologies for this, but I didn't really have any other platform (Twitter doesn't work from mobile phones here).

Long story short: We planned to have a simple exhibition to raise awareness about Tibet's fight for independence. Folks at Chinese embassy were none too pleased. We refused to cancel the exhibition. Police from the Bangladesh Police Special Branch (akin to the intelligence unit) made repeated visits and threats.

© Shehab Uddin / DrikNEWS

All of this culminated in a showdown of sorts today. The police ended up locking the gates so that no one could enter or leave. Shahidul Alam, the founder and director of Drik, ended up having to climb over the gates again and again just to get in and out.

© Adnan / DrikNEWS

The chief guest arrived - Professor Muzaffar Ahmed, president of Transparency International Bangladesh. He wasn't allowed in either. But he kept smiling, and I couldn't help but giggle whenever I looked at him. I suppose being in charge of fighting corruption in the country makes you quite immune to such things.

© Shehab Uddin / DrikNEWS

So, we ended up launching the exhibitions on the streets since the police refused to budge. We gave out refreshments, just as they would have if it had taken place inside the gallery. The policemen refused their share of cake.

Professor Muzaffar Ahmed (left) launching the exhibition on the streets with Shahidul Alam.
© Adnan / DrikNEWS

© Shehab Uddin / DrikNEWS

An interesting day, if I do say so myself.


Note: The exhibition wasn't our idea, although we did provide the gallery space for it. The organisers were a group of Bangladeshi students who had taken it upon themselves to fight for Tibet's freedom. I'll save that chapter of the story for another time.