Sausages on curfew break

‘On keeping straight face during 9 o’clock news”, digital print,2008

Went for a random walk around Dhaka during the three-hour curfew break. No empty rickshaws anywhere. Walking is good for me anyway; have to get rid of flab. Ready for the ‘revolution’. Near our house, a flood refugee’s child is held up by the mother as he takes a shit. Liquid stream of light yellow forming a quick pool under him. At Shukrabad, two police idling and talking to a civilian. The civvy is saying, “You understand that a page of the book has turned, but now the wind has blown that page back over.” I want to stay and hear more, but I really don’t want to idle near the police. Not today. At Manik Mia Avenue, one of the armoured police cars is open while the men rest outside. They seem relaxed. This is the first time that I’ve seen the interior. Inside there are tall black seats, like on a deluxe bus (Dhaka-Chittagong, oy, oy).

I was supposed to meet a friend. I’m twenty minutes late. All cell-phone networks were shut off as soon as the curfew was lifted (clever move, that one), no way to tell him I’m late. Isn’t it interesting that the country’s dependence on mobiles in the last ten years has become such that you can control populations by toggling the on/off switch? I’m sure people had informal modes of communication before in order to organise political action, but over-dependence has made other channels wither. Now when we get <>, we’re paralysed.