In the country of lost things

Lately, you’ve become something of an amateur antiquarian.

Like the tetrapod transition, it started innocuously enough – a stroll through adolescence, buying a batch of (counterfeit) Pokémon cards, dusting off your PS2 … and somewhere along the way, you found yourself thoroughly immersed in the bygone, spending days sifting through old pictures, weekends hopping retro sale to retro sale, and mornings grimacing the mirror – desperately missing the uniform you once hated. You read this at your desk at 3 or 4 or 5, loosening your tie, neglectfully (intentionally?) spilling the ashtray. Once upon a time – can you remember when? – you’re a teenager lounging in the balcony, soaking up the afternoon with a book/magazine/Walkman, and you see something, something peeking between the buildings, something slowly subsuming the sunlight … What was it exactly?

Everything’s the same, right?

Exhaling smoke at Barek Mollah, I continue eavesdropping + taking notes, desperately fending off unconsciousness; when I heard the brief, I thought it’d be a piece of cake, especially since the frame of mind I’m recently in – particularly during mornings, the horizon covered in fog/smog, my surroundings disappearing as if they never existed, were nothing but a sketch of a sketch of a sketch of a memory … What am I doing exactly?

You’re surprised life still surprises you.

You had long passed 27, your ideals withered, you stopped trusting the future … Like anyone stuck in a corner, you did what you had to do. You took the only way out.

And for a while, things transpired as you thought: gloomy, interminable 9-5s, boardrooms as perilous as D-Day, endless maelstroms of limited time campaigns, stock tickers, credit card bills …

But somewhere along the way, you started having fun, fondly remembering the shoes you bought, limited-edition Nikes worn by the GOAT himself. You finally understand the appeal of spending evenings at bars, even though you’re unsure if you even like alcohol. Your first time in Bangkok? You truly believed you made it, eagerly waiting for a future when you’d look back as fondly as you do with kindergarten …

Or maybe, that’s just what you tell yourself.

Everything’s the same, right?

Lighting a fag, I scurry up the alley; two minutes later, I see Tommy; he nods – burying his muzzle into my side; something feels wrong – he seems thinner, scrawnier, with a wariness that’d make Cioran blush. Sure, it’s been (at the very least) a couple months, but wasn’t he besides himself the last time I was here? Didn’t he seem disconsolate when I left?

Or is this not Tommy at all? Is this just a random mutt desperate for attention (I’d add food here, but he doesn’t seem interested)? ...

No, it’s him alright, my old friend I’ve known since junior year. At the same time, wasn’t the Tommy I knew full of life? Didn’t he have gumption overshadowing Shiv Khera? Wasn’t he the biggest rascal? Didn’t he love Dora Cak– Then again, Dora Cakes’ve been discontinued for four years now ...

Maybe it was the fourth/fifth grade – you can’t remember exactly – but you’ve seen this contraption before, this gaudy, plastic FM radio with Shabnoor plasted across front. The tech always appealed to you – you’ve been an avid listener since childhood, ever since stumbling upon Avril Lavigne on a phantom wavelength – but you never saw the point of owning one, never saw the point wasting a 100. After all, even the most rudimentary phones came with a transistor, and a 100 is a 100, better spent on the latest video game (Far Cry? Crysis?).

But now that you’ve stumbled across one, you drop the money – all 2000 of it – casually; you’re itching to get back into this old habit, particularly excited to listen to old favorites like Bhoot FM …

Unbeknownst to you, Bhoot FM ended seven years ago.

Exhaling smoke, I start jotting down my impressions, trying to catalogue changes:

The pavements of Mirpur 10 are clear, spacious, with no sign of the usual hustle + bustle, no sign of the elderly book-seller who sold you Infinite Jest 10 (15?) years ago. The secluded little alleyway at the mouth of 60 Feet has become narrower and dingier and devoid of the open lots that marked your adolescence, no longer allowing you to soak up the afternoon. 60 feet itself? Covered in asphalt + surrounded by superstructures, slowly losing its hamlet-esque charm. Hell, that restaurant you fell in love with just a year back? It closed two months in, replaced by a barbershop that never opens …

And yet, all of these changes seem cosmetic … In most cases, at least. If you look in a certain direction, you can still feel a tinge of familiarity, can still feel that slight tinge of melancholy, the same tinge you felt as you were confined home in the fifth grade, fighting for your life, slowly realizing that the life you once had is gone forever …

But then again, you’re not sure if the feelings are organic/something you conjure up. If you’re being honest, whenever you are at these places, the only ‘authentic’ feeling you get is a sense of restlessness, this painful anxiety that you cannot explain. Someone once told you that childhood’s escape; middle-age is eternal return, but that person was wrong. That person was utterly, horribly wrong …

In the traditional sense, this isn’t a ghost story – no phantoms or vampires or things that go bump in the night. Instead, there’ll be tales about foggy autumn mornings, about streets which were once so intimate that they’ve lost all familiarity. You’ll hear about cyber cafes, re-experience those quiet, life-defining moments, witnessing the sunlight pouring through gaps and crags, gaping at majestic, impossible cumuli, the sort of clouds that only seemed to exist in your childhood, during those drawn-out, lazy shorot mornings (what do those damn clouds hide?) …

Or maybe, you’ll just hear my voice. If you’re brave enough, you might even say hello.

And if you’re lucky (or unlucky, depending on your POV), I’ll return the greeting.

Nafis Shahriar is a writer based in Dhaka, Bangladesh. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Brooklyn to Gangnam, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and Nutshell Today. He can be reached on Instagram @somedudefromasia