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.