Cyclus - 12 Months in Bangladesh

By Elizabeth Grevstad-Mork

Join Elizabeth Grevstad-Mork on a captivating journey through the heart of Bangladesh in Cyclus - 12 Months in Bangladesh. This illuminating memoir unravels the rich tapestry of Bangladesh’s landscapes, cultures and traditions over the course of a year. From the vibrant festivities of Baishakh to the serene winters of Magh, each chapter explores the unique aspects of life in different parts of Bangladesh.
Grevstad-Mork masterfully interweaves personal anecdotes with vivid descriptions, bringing to life the beauty and complexity of this South Asian nation. As the seasons change, so do the stories, painting a picture of a country full of contrast and colour. Experience the bustle of Dhaka’s streets, the tranquillity of rural villages and the spiritual solemnity of ancient temples.
More than a travel memoir, Cyclus is a profound reflection on the human spirit, resilience and the universal search for meaning in the world’s endless cycles. This book is a must read for anyone who longs to understand the soul of Bangladesh and the rhythm of life that pulses through its land and people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035810949

Elizabeth Grevstad-Mork

Raised amidst the towering mountains of western Norway, Elizabeth Grevstad-Mork later moved to Denmark and then to the Netherlands. Returning to Norway, she completed her schooling and pursued higher education, studying language and history at university. After graduating, she joined the foreign service, which led to postings in numerous countries. Now retired, she continues to travel and write.

Book preview

Baishakh

April/May

This crinkled, little town with its labyrinths of narrow streets. Once inside, you do not know how to get out. And deep within, or presumably in the middle, since this is probably the source from which the town sprang out, a fabulous, old castle. Several hundred years old it must be, but beautifully restored, a colossal contrast to the buildings behind that have been allowed to decay.

Entering through the main door, I find myself in a huge hall. The ceiling is very high up and the walls all have stained-glass paintings. Beams of sunlight seep through the glass, making a coloured pattern on the stone floor and outside. Clearly visible through one of the windows is a Krishnuchura in full bloom.

How they must have danced here, the British ladies, with their magnificent dresses flowing, now and then brushing aside a strand of hair that has come loose from their carefully braided hair! And even before their time, a young widow, the sole owner of the estate, was walking up and down the stairs round and round in the huge, empty rooms. In her solitude, she dedicated her life and fortune to the village community and is forever remembered for it.

* * *

Outside in the tumultuous town again, I go to a few melas and I also visit several jeweller shops, asking for silver. Later, I came to know that this particular little town is famous for its gold. What a disappointment I must have been to them! If the desire should ever arise in me to own a gold chain or a pair of earrings, I would definitely go back there.

* * *

By now, the heat is suffocating and the sky seems to be in the process of shifting from clear blue to a deep, metallic grey.

When we take off from the main road, heading along a narrow village path, towards our hostess’s home, the sky has turned completely black. Still, it was early afternoon but dark as evening. Seconds after, a torrential rain set in.

Except for us, the road was empty; everybody had sought shelter somehow—in huts or under trees. Very carefully, we moved along the muddy path, but of course we got stuck. I suppose it was unavoidable. Pushing the car was of no use; the wheel just dug itself deeper and deeper into the soil.

Then people started coming, defying the rain and the wind. Women and children remained in the background, while men and young boys eagerly came forward, discussing how they best could help.

Somebody got the idea to place branches and leaves close to the wheel. The earth around it was shovelled away and suddenly the car moved forwards. Some more pushing and the car came free and back on track. After the greetings and the traditional shaking of hands, a few ten-taka notes got new owners and we set forth again, even more cautious than before.

By the time we reached home, it was really evening and not much to do other than going to sleep. After the meal, I blew out the tiny flame of the oil lamp and stumbled in the direction I knew that the bed would be. Lying there, listening to the rain and the howling foxes, I experienced a kind of peace, of safety and homeliness that I had not felt for years.

* * *

Back in Dhaka, I found that the year had changed. I went to an exhibition and saw masks made