Dhaka

The sunlight glows like the blazing metal beneath the hammers of the blacksmiths, glinting off of the sweat on the bare skinned workers with flat stones piled on their backs.

They tread their torn sandals on dirt roads littered with crows rummaging through the garbage, holding apple cores or banana peels in their beaks, cawing out their delight at every find.

The gray-black birds scatter in all directions as a peddler pulls a cart behind him, his hair bandaged to his head behind the shirt he opted to catch his sweat rather than cover his body.

The cart holds a mound of jackfruits, the spiky husks meshed together on the pyramid by narrow lengths of twine.

A fruit is spilt open in front of the rest to show off the yellow pods inside and the mushy orange flesh dripping with syrupy juice.

The flies heed the call of the fragrant aroma of the cut fruit and rush to cover themselves in the orange goo.

The peddler shoos them away and takes a stray pod for himself.

The fruit tastes like honey and rose petals and a little bit too sweet so he eats no more.

He looks at the remainder of the open fruit and finds that it is quickly browning under the glare of sun, so he hands them to a little girl sitting on a woven mat on the sidewalk, her baby brother in her lap, naked aside from the customary black mark above his eyebrow to fend off evil spirits.

Taking the fruit in her hands, she uses one hand to feed herself and extends the other hand out, making sure not to miss a possible generous passerby.

The odd coin falls into her palm and she licks the juice running down her forearm.

She walks up to a shopping center that is footsteps away from her sidewalk home.

Her arm is forever protruding from her body, her brother resting on her hip as evidence of her destitution.

A middle-aged woman jumps off of her rickshaw, haggling with the puller to bring down the fare a few measly taka until he finally agrees.

The girl comes to the woman, begging for a few coins.

The woman hands the girl her won change and walks away, glancing back to see the girl smiling in gratitude.

The woman rushes into the air conditioned oasis of the ten story shopping complex, the breath of cold air taming the painful after effects of the heat.

She makes her way through the crowd occupying every vacant space along the floor.

Pushing herself onto the escalators, she manages to reach the second story where shop windows house an assortment of mannequins sporting the latest Bollywood styles, silk saris and gowns embroidered with elaborate patterns.

She shops until each of her fingers is being cut by the weight of a shopping bag.

She leaves the comfort of the building and faces the assertive afternoon.

She hails a scooter and sits inside the passenger compartment of the taxi, giving the driver her address.

The driver nods quickly, and revs the scooter forward with a twist of the handlebars, diving into a sea of traffic as he is met with a foray of car horns that assault his eardrums and pound against his skull.

A cloud of smoke blows into the air and joins the smog of the city, blowing the stench of gasoline and sweat into the driver’s face.

As the shopping district becomes visible in the rounded rearview mirrors, the odor of the pollution is replaced by the scent of frying pastries sizzling on the street side.

A vendor swirls batter onto the bubbling oil in a large black pot, situated over a fire which he feeds with the newspaper scraps that are abundant on street gutters.

He wipes his brow, desperate for relief from the scorching grip of the fire.

He hands flower-shaped jalebis to one eager customer after another.

The sweets gain their distinctive flavor from the orange dye mixed in with the batter, lending the taste of caramel and stale oil.

The vendor watches as the daylight eases its grasp on the city, releasing its suffocating, sweaty clutch on all the inhabitants.

The magenta of the afternoon slowly succumbs to the sapphire of the evening while hundreds of mosques all simultaneously sound their prayer calls, signaling for the thousands of men dressed in white robes and woven caps to make their journey.

As nighttime approaches, the city gains new life, its skyline becoming a shining cutout against a neon gradient speckled with the radiant particles of the store signs.

And the sun spreads its final ruby entrails as it falls behind the banner of red and green waving in the nighttime breeze.