I think we are often quite careless with our hometowns. Maybe it is the comfort of familiarity that makes us take our cities for granted. Whenever I go back to Dhaka, I am so consumed by nostalgia and my loved ones that I sometimes wonder - have I ever truly explored my city?
On my trip to Bangkok, I met up with one of my friends from Bocconi, Aryan, who has been living there for a while. We met on my last night, and as he listed places to explore and things to do in Bangkok, I realized I had already done most of them. As we talked about travel, home, and life, we landed on the casual convenience of not exploring your hometown. When I returned from Bangkok, I was determined - I was going to explore Dhaka as if I were a stranger.
One of my first rituals after landing in Dhaka is always a rickshaw ride. Something about the wind, headphones in, music playing - there are very few experiences that beat that feeling. On my first rickshaw ride back, I was headed to meet my childhood best friend of seventeen (I know!) years, Alif. Alif is an explorer in her own right; every time I return, she knows the best places and the newest restaurants. That is how we ended up at Nosh in Dhanmondi. But truthfully, I barely remember what we ordered or how the food tasted. What I remember instead is her bringing me beautiful white flowers, TikTokers in the corner filming Christmas dance videos (which we absolutely should have joined), and us talking like we had seen each other just yesterday.
Exploration also looked like revisiting old neighborhoods. My dearest cousin, Shimu apu, and I took a trip to Mirpur - where we were neighbors years ago (fun fact: we are still neighbors now, just in a different neighborhood). I had heard about new street food carts opening in Mirpur-1 and knew we had to check them out. And no one supports my street food adventures quite like Shimu apu does. On our way to a very unassuming doi fuchka spot, we passed our old apartment, a grocery store that no longer existed, buildings that had transformed into massive shopping malls, and endless street food stalls.
Walking those roads, drinking cha, I was flooded with memories - chowmein from a tiny restaurant called Agri Kitchen that no longer exists, chicken lollipops my aunt used to bring home after I fell in love with them, and a mama I always got jhal muri from. While it was exciting to try new food, I found myself more immersed in the memories that lived everywhere around me.
I also learned that exploration can mean the same place, different people. I realized this when I visited the Gulshan Shahabuddin Park alone one morning - coffee in hand, bookstore checked off, park explored. But later that day, after pizza, pasta, and a questionable tiramisu with Alif, Aria, and Anika, we found ourselves back at the park simply because we could. This time, I noticed everything I had missed earlier - the exercise equipment, the massive swings, the hidden playgrounds. With Anika in charge of shooing kids away (“Babu hoise tomar?”) and us quickly realizing spinning rides were not a great idea after a gallon of pasta, it felt like a completely new park. I hadn’t been there that morning.
Exploration can also mean the same people, different choices. When I met up with Amina, one of my closest friends, we decided to break tradition. Normally, we would choose something trendy, but this time we took it back - street food and Bengali classics. Amina and I go way back: coaching classes, fuchka breaks, and her patiently joining my questionable food adventures (maybe I forced her). So we found ourselves at a small restaurant eating jhal muri, tehari, jilapi (all my favorites), and of course, cha.
As we talked, Amina mentioned my blogs (if you’re reading this, heyy!) and reminded me of my first solo trip to Nepal in 2019; she was one of the first people who had heard me planning that and supported me as I took off classes for weeks on my adventure. That trip was just the beginning. She told me she was proud of me. It felt surreal - she has been there since the very beginning. Sharing my stories with someone who has witnessed my entire journey felt bigger than any exploration I could plan.
Every time I return to Dhaka, especially during that final stretch of the trip, I think about how quickly time moves. Before I know it, I am staring at the flight map back to the U.S. And just like that, my time in Dhaka was ending.
I went to say goodbye to my grandparents in our very first neighborhood. Everything there had changed and yet felt exactly the same. My grandparents still remembered me as the little girl they once cut Taylor Swift photos out of the newspaper for. They looked different, as time insists we all do, but the love felt untouched. On the rickshaw ride home, I noticed everything - the tailoring shop we always used, the grocery store where I bought my favorite ice cream, the apartment building I once watched being constructed that now looked old. Every corner held a memory in a way you can only achieve when a place is truly your home.
On my last day, my khalamoni and mami came to say goodbye. The first thing they asked was if I wanted fuchka (I couldn’t because 40-hour-journey), because of course they knew. As I hugged them, I realized the next time I return, things will be different - I’ll be a graduate, maybe already in my post-grad life. But I also knew one thing would stay the same: I would still be eating way too much fuchka, and their love for me is something I can never replicate in a different city.
So on the car ride to the airport, my mom’s arm linked with mine, my brother Arian beside me, my dad in the front, I realized something - I could never truly be a stranger in this city. I don’t need to be one to explore Dhaka. My exploration already exists through the people who love me. There is no other corner store in the world that has watched me buy the same chips for years, no other home with a collage of my travels on the wall (thanks mom), and no other city that has held every version of me from the very beginning.
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