his afternoon I saw an Indian babu walking barefoot on the black sands of Kovalam Beach. He was wearing a loose-fitting white cotton shirt that was whirling with the breeze, and dark gray trousers with the cuffs rolled up mid-calf. He could have been a government clerk. Maybe a bank manager. Who knows?
When I spent four hectic days (all I could spare on my long trip) in Dhaka as the guest of my student friend's father, Rahman Chowdhury, the retired owner of several auto repair shops in the city run by his younger brothers, that he still kept a strong hand on, he grew like my company very much.
On a day excursion to the "jungle" that wasn't there anymore, and to the river where fish were "plentiful" but there were none for sale anymore, he asked me if I would like to go with him and his family to Chittagong Beach.
I asked him how long it would take. He said, "Oh, about two weeks."
Chittagong Beach at that time was a tropical getaway for the rich. 100 miles of sand that you could probably run naked on with no difficulty. Today, Chittagong Beach is the center of the largest ship salvaging business in the world. No one would want to spend any time in that polluted place anymore.
