We have always been champions of hugging. From clutching relatives at weddings long enough to make the stage creak, to embracing one another at mosques after prayers, to greeting colleagues with theatrical warmth at the first meeting of the week. And of course, the masters of the art, our politicians, hugging voters before elections with dazzling smiles, then hugging power afterwards as if their lives depended on it.
In our country, the word “sorry” is rarer than electricity on a summer evening. Not because we do not make mistakes. We produce them in bulk. From call drops to collapsing bridges, from delayed mega projects to disappearing dollars, we are world-class exporters of errors.
Money lives two parallel lives. For the poor villager, it hides in the folds of a lungi, under a mattress, or in the holy corner of the rice jar, because who needs banks when you have God? Meanwhile, the rich gentleman (read: political or business elite) does not believe in such simplicity. His money takes the first flight out—to Dubai, Singapore, London—anywhere but here. The result? One half of the nation is literally sleeping on cash, while the other half is ensuring that Bangladesh itself remains penniless.
Cash does not leave a trail. It is not about convenience; it is about invisibility
Arif left for Australia, declaring he would “be a manager within months”. True enough, he now proudly manages the dishwashing section at a bustling café. He even has a team: two other part-timers and an industrial sink. Back home, his family tells neighbours he is in hospitality management, and technically, no one can say they are lying!
We have two kinds of brave people. One, the man who casually crosses a six-lane road while talking on the phone, blind to buses, rickshaws, and divine intervention.
Being a CEO is like being the goat at a family wedding: pampered, praised, and then served at dinner. One wrong question or bruised ego, and the corner office starts to feel like a trapdoor. The same board that once called you “family” suddenly avoids eye contact. It’s a shiny job title wrapped in politics, where survival depends more on diplomacy than performance.
“My grandfather was a Chowdhury, how can I be a carpenter?”—a classic Bangladeshi mindset, where jobs involving tools, wheels, or grease are treated like social demotion.
We have always been champions of hugging. From clutching relatives at weddings long enough to make the stage creak, to embracing one another at mosques after prayers, to greeting colleagues with theatrical warmth at the first meeting of the week. And of course, the masters of the art, our politicians, hugging voters before elections with dazzling smiles, then hugging power afterwards as if their lives depended on it.
In our country, the word “sorry” is rarer than electricity on a summer evening. Not because we do not make mistakes. We produce them in bulk. From call drops to collapsing bridges, from delayed mega projects to disappearing dollars, we are world-class exporters of errors.
Money lives two parallel lives. For the poor villager, it hides in the folds of a lungi, under a mattress, or in the holy corner of the rice jar, because who needs banks when you have God? Meanwhile, the rich gentleman (read: political or business elite) does not believe in such simplicity. His money takes the first flight out—to Dubai, Singapore, London—anywhere but here. The result? One half of the nation is literally sleeping on cash, while the other half is ensuring that Bangladesh itself remains penniless.
Cash does not leave a trail. It is not about convenience; it is about invisibility
Arif left for Australia, declaring he would “be a manager within months”. True enough, he now proudly manages the dishwashing section at a bustling café. He even has a team: two other part-timers and an industrial sink. Back home, his family tells neighbours he is in hospitality management, and technically, no one can say they are lying!
We have two kinds of brave people. One, the man who casually crosses a six-lane road while talking on the phone, blind to buses, rickshaws, and divine intervention.
Being a CEO is like being the goat at a family wedding: pampered, praised, and then served at dinner. One wrong question or bruised ego, and the corner office starts to feel like a trapdoor. The same board that once called you “family” suddenly avoids eye contact. It’s a shiny job title wrapped in politics, where survival depends more on diplomacy than performance.
“My grandfather was a Chowdhury, how can I be a carpenter?”—a classic Bangladeshi mindset, where jobs involving tools, wheels, or grease are treated like social demotion.
Two shoe salesmen were sent to a remote village to assess the market. The first returned, visibly deflated. “Hopeless! No one wears shoes there,” he said. The second came back beaming, saying, “Amazing! No one wears shoes there!” Same village, same people, same situation, different perspectives. One saw zero demand, the other saw untapped potential.
In Bangladesh, numerous negative stories exist aimed at discrediting AI and discouraging its adoption. One school introduced AI to grade Bangla essays.
