This morning, something suddenly crossed my mind, and my mood turned a little gloomy.
I arrived hometown last evening. There was a time when Cox’s Bazar was known as one of the cleanest cities in Bangladesh. Looking at current statistics, it seems that reputation may be hard to restore. Still, the Air Quality Index (AQI) remains within a tolerable range—today’s report showed it hovering around 120.
I’ve never spent much time in Dhaka. For both study and work, I live in Chittagong, where the amount of dust and pollution is overwhelming—Dhaka is even worse. In comparison, Cox's Bazar still feels like a breath of fresh air.
My home isn’t far from the beach, and that’s a blessing. During morning walks, I can stroll to the sea. And if the mood strikes me, I slip off my shoes and walk barefoot on the wet sand—for as long as I want. I’ve never grown tired of the ocean.
Sometimes, when friends mention that I live by the sea in Cox’s Bazar, I feel like they don’t truly grasp the beauty of it—the thrill I feel—and I quietly end the conversation.
The charm of the mountains, the sea, and Cox’s Bazar itself is something I can never shake off.
The vibrant colors of the evening sky here are unlike anything I’ve ever seen elsewhere.
I don’t travel much, but I do have this ability to savor the moment, to find joy in the present. And in terms of sheer joy, Cox’s Bazar will always be at the top for me.
That said, the condition of the roads has worsened significantly in recent years. The dust has become unbearable. On the bright side, new roads are being built. Whether or not the local people are truly applauding the project is another matter—after all, the whole road is being dug up with no proper alternative in place.
Still, today’s melancholy isn’t really about any of that.
I had planned to come home a few days ago, but some unfinished tasks kept me here. From the very beginning, an image of a bird-filled morning kept appearing in my mind. Right in front of our house is the largest cemetery in Cox’s Bazar, surrounded by a collection of about a thousand fruit and forest trees. In the past, I would wake up to the lively calls of various birds. I’ve lost count of how many times sparrows flew into the house through the small open window and darted from room to room. I’ve watched sparrows repeatedly battle their reflections in the window panes. But today, from this morning onward, I haven’t seen a single bird.
We once lived in a village. Our house was not far from the city. Whenever I recall memories from my childhood, I feel emotional. On the south side of the house was a large pond, with jam trees growing haphazardly beside it. Most of the time, white egrets made their nests in the branches of those trees. The flowers of the nearby mother tree provided nectar for many birds. There were numerous coconut trees nearby, and occasionally, baya weavers would build their nests there. In the evenings, I could spot owls in the gaps of the rain tree. On the cornice of our two-story house, many families of sparrows made their nests. I would recite poems about baya weavers and sparrows fighting with each other while watching them. In the winter mornings, I would wake up to the scent of ripe pineapples. How many times I’ve poked holes in dried coconuts, filled them with sugar, and left them on burning straw! I used to enjoy them so much; I still remember it.
As time passed, busyness increased. So did the concrete buildings. The struggle to survive grew immensely. The demand for human needs expanded beyond measure. A chocolate wrapper is now twice the size! Now, a plastic spoon is provided just to eat it, and a straw is given so that it doesn’t drip down your chin while you sip. Life has become easier, and it continues to do so. But beyond all this, does this mechanization truly make everyone happy? Is the entertainment we talk about limited to a big pet monkey chewing on the iron bars of a zoo's balcony? Today, the mind feels strangely melancholic.
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