It all started with a train accident. I remember it so vividly. Yet I cannot tell if I should see it as one journey or as a collective one. It was a winter’s day in Bangladesh. It’s all dusty, foggy, yet sunny, like a typical winter day in February. My friend Nasim and I decided to go to Dhaka from Narsingdi to collect our passports. The Noakhali Express is the slowest, most crowded train I have ever traveled by. Besides, it was quite unimaginable to get space in the train, let alone to get a seat in the train. Like most of the time, we were not just lucky enough to manage space in any compartment.

None of my journeys were so smooth by this train. I had bad experiences every time I traveled by this train. Once I flung myself in the stairwell of the train, as I could not get in the compartment. It was so full that I had to hang myself with the handles to hold on and somehow managed to keep my legs on the stairs. Near the train station, there was a river called Shitalakhya that we had to cross. I looked down from the train while crossing the river. I felt so numb that I barely felt that numbness in the cold winters of Germany. Somehow, I was saved by my friend, Nasim. He was my hero when it came to traveling by train. He just managed to push the people inside and make space for both of us at the door. The other time, we had to get to the front of the engine on a winter night. I had nothing but a half-sleeved sweater over my shirt. We had to spend around one and a half hours on the train. The chillish cold that I felt that day was quite indescribable. It was not as cold as the winter in Germany, but it was something else. Nasim and I felt like ravens setting and crumbling for that one and a half hours. Another time, we had to jump from a running train since the train did not stop by a station. Nasim was a pro when it came to doing such stunts, whereas I was a total noob. The trick was to get down from the train and start running. It helps to steadily manage the speed. I was such a noob that, out of fear, I directly jumped, not following the instructions given by my friend. I fell down and almost got myself killed. I saw my death almost from an arm’s length distance when I fell. However, that was still okay. But I could not take the death of a lady that I experienced.

The train journeys might not be smooth, but they were to some extent remarkable for us. Nasim and I had quite a few stories attached to our journeys. Once we had an encounter with a group of Hijras (third genders), and they were asking for money. We knew they were begging, as they scarcely had any jobs offered to them in Bangladesh. Yet we refused to pay as we barely even earned in our young adulthood. When they were refused, they got really annoyed. One of them just opened her blouse and said, “Squeeze my breasts then, morons; after all, why are you on the train?” We could say something to her, but it’s just that that was not the right place to make an argument with them. The other time, Nasim became a hero by just sharing his seat with a girl. Getting a seat on the train was that valuable that the girl did not even hesitate to share her phone number with my friend that she barely knew. Nasim was very delighted to have her phone number. The saddest part was that he called her the next day yet could not make a conversation. He scarcely understood a single word, because the girl was from Noakhali. The language of Noakhali was exotic enough to understand for the people of Narsingdi, let alone speak.

Okay, enough of the storytelling, thriving in the past, in between the main plot. Let’s get back on track. That day, we were not lucky enough to get into a compartment. So, we got on the front space near the engine again. There was a small, barricaded space where people could stand. Someone might wonder how people could do that. Well, it was nothing compared to sitting in the in-between space of two compartments. People sat there as if they were punished after committing a serious crime. However, the views from the front were quite beautiful; someone could enjoy the beauty of Bangladeshi villages. The aligned Akashi trees, ripe paddies in the field, the blue sky, and the snakelike canals besides the fields—everything sums up the beauty, even with dusty, dead, yellowish leaves, the loud engine, hot barricades, and people around you smoking cigarettes.

After around 15 minutes, we came somewhere near Gazipur. The train had a turning point where someone could not see the view ahead. But when the train was making a slight turn, the view ahead became visible. And I noticed a couple quarreling near the train line. It was obviously not possible for me to understand the reason for quarreling, but it did not seem that prominent. As soon as the train reached near the couple, I saw nothing but heard a sound of smashing. The train stopped, and we got down. I saw nothing. The woman from the couple just vanished; not a single piece of her body was visible. It felt like she just vanished from my sight. I could not remember her face, yet I still remember the event. The train started after half an hour, as If nothing really happened. Ever since then, I have never travelled in a train in Bangladesh.

10 years later…………

I had to go to Berlin from Göttingen to collect my renewed passport. It is a winter day too. I got up very early in the morning. Unlike Bangladeshi winter, there was not much fog, dust, or sun but rather gloom and cold. I wore heavy clothes to save myself from the winter. I also did not need to have a heroic friend to get along with the hustle of the trains here. I could travel alone and enjoy it all alone. The trains are modern, timely, quiet, and smooth, but I missed the views. I reached Berlin right in time, had my passport, and traveled through the busy city. While coming back, it became dark at around 5 pm, and I got on the train from Berlin to Magdeburg. Unlike my morning journey, the train seemed to be quite full and loud, and there was not much seat left. Luckily, after three or four stations, I managed to get a seat. Just right in front of me, there sat an old lady with a dog. She had a seat reserved for her dog too.

Coming from Bangladesh, I could not leave my Bengali part in the Western world. I looked at people constantly. I knew the western people barely liked it. I could not just resist stopping myself from looking at others. I was also staring at the old lady. The old lady was giving all the affection of her life to the dog while the dog was just sitting confused. It made me sure that she had no one to show her love other than this dog. She was just pouring all her love into this confused dog. While on the other side of her, there sat an adult boy who was missing her mother constantly. As she was expressing her love, it was making me jealous of the dog. I wish I could replace the dog and just sit there. It was a constant craving that was coming out through my eyes. I was pretty sure that this might be the reason why people did not like to be looked at. She barely noticed as if I were not even existing. 

All of a sudden, the old lady reminded me of the train accident that occurred in Bangladesh. I could imagine the lady from that accident. She was so far, yet she was visible to me. When she came close, I could not see her anymore. She just vanished. For once, it felt like I was looking at her in the western world. The old lady just resembled her. I was looking at her as if I saw her in the western world in a new form. She seemed to be so recognizable to me that it felt like the lady who died in Bangladesh was living a double life here in the western world all alone with her dog. She might be lonely, but she did not have to put herself under the train. This time, she did not vanish; rather, she just remained distant. I saw two contrasting images right in front of my eyes.

While I saw her loving her dog, it made me restless. I felt an urge that I must take a photo. I must take a photo of her to show the world that I saw her in the future. The postcolonial world that I came from and the postmodern world that she lives in were creating a duality of timing. Sometimes it felt like I was living in the future, but I longed for the past. I could say I saw the future of that lady who just vanished in front of my eyes in that accident. I wanted to take a photo so that she would not just vanish in front of my eyes. I could say I had proof of her living a decent life in Germany.

The juxtaposition of realities and dualities is just too much. We shared a singular reality, yet there was duality. She was from a postmodern world, and I came from a postcolonial world. I got confused about whether I should write the stories in the past, present, or future. These two worlds were colliding and creating one world for me where she represents my future, and I did not even exist in her diaries. Yet she existed in mine, and I might just be someone random to her, a random Bangladeshi sitting in front of her. It barely mattered to her that I existed or didn’t. She mattered to me because she exists, because she represents something and someone. She was and is the story of life that I must tell. She was and is the journey that I have been through timelessness. I wanted to take a photo, yet it was not allowed to take a photo of an individual specifically focusing on her face. I could be jailed or punished for doing so. Yet I am the past who could break the law in my world. because I am still existing in a postcolonial world where existence did not even matter, like the dead body of the lady, let alone taking a photo. And therefore, I must take a photo; I must! It’s a proof of my life that I exist, through the tales, through these journeys.