Once upon an evening a few many years ago my father and I were making our way through Dhaka to the train station. Sitting in the rickshaw I was observing the tall monolithic buildings on each side, gleaming columns of windows offering occasional glimpses of the domestic life of the capitolers. And the moon peeked from behind a tower.

-The moon in Dhaka is different from ours.

-Hahaha, the moon? Ours?

-Huh, this one is somewhat dirty, isn’t it?

-We have different moons? Didn’t know that.

-Look at it. I insisted.

My father kept laughing and the rickshaw-wala glanced behind at me in between paddling, grinning.

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