My love affair with spectacles has long been regarded by my mother as nothing but a symptom of my dramatic nature.

At the age of three, swaddled on a rickshaw between the folds of my grandmother's saree, I made my way across the bustling streets of Old Dhaka to Patuatuli, the ultimate hub of quality glasses. The street was caged on either side by rundown brick buildings with their plasters falling off at various spots and the color on the shutters of their windows peeling away.

I remember the rickshaw stopping at a tiny shop located on the ground floor of one such building, and, to my chagrin, my grandmother (whom we all affectionately call Moina) insisting on entering it despite its appearance of disuse. I remember gasping at the sight of the hundreds upon hundreds of glasses with frames of innumerable shapes and colors. And I remember the pleasant smile that spread across Moina's face when the shopkeeper presented her with her new glasses. I was mesmerised by these glasses whose lenses were thicker than my pudgy fingers, and whose frame was smooth and polished. My love for glasses had ensued.

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The Writer

This love persisted till the age of 10 when, screaming and crying, I exited the office of a rather befuddled ophthalmologist. After years of wanting glasses, my wish had come true. But the idea of my eyesight being permanently impaired was incredibly frightful to a 10-year-old me. The fear remained throughout the long rickshaw ride to that old shop in Patuatuli with my mother. Yet, entering its compact premises and trying on all the frames it had to offer, my fears melted away to be replaced by the thrill of getting an accessory that I could cherish. I loved the pair I chose with all the love I could muster. It lent me a look that brought me closer in appearance to Ma and Moina, it strengthened my identity as their daughter and granddaughter.

That day, as a reward for all my tears, Ma led me by my still tiny hands to Kusum, a bakery located just a few blocks away. The shop greeted us with nearly all the delicacies that Old Dhaka has to offer—gigantic parathas, meringues, and bakorkhani, the ultimate comfort food. Enjoying that delightfully light pastry with Ma, sitting high atop a stool with my newly acquired glasses, I felt more happiness than I could possibly contain.

A number of broken glasses and even more numerous inexplicable urges have repeatedly brought me to Patuatuli over the years. Sometimes with Ma or Moina, other times alone, I have found myself roaming the street on an open rickshaw, basking in all the curiosities the place presents. And, every time, I try to deduce what it is about that place that draws me in.

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Terrible tea, terrible life choices

The main street is barely wide enough to allow two rickshaws to pass at the same time. Yet, it is always jam-packed with vehicles and people. The whole area is impossibly loud under the sound of cars and hawkers, hopelessly entangled in its archaic buildings and telephone poles. Looking up during these rickshaw rides, I am only able to see slivers of the sky because the countless telephone wires mostly blot it out. They allow passage to sunlight only in snippets so the street below is thrown into a maze of dark shadows.

Still, I love this place. Every time I am there, l find myself looking at the faces around me, trying to make out the stories of love, sadness, and simplicity they carry in their etched lines. And I love the stories I find there. The owners of the glass shops, the confectioners at the bakeries, the hawkers and the children on the streets, the dying buildings and the overflowing gutters, the Bakerkhanis and lassis—they all tell a story. Their stories make up the story of the street, and this story has become intertwined with mine over time. The memories I've made here, the times I've spent with my loved ones enjoying a delectable snack at Kusum or choosing a pair of glasses that lends my appearance just the right touch of drama or chatting with the shopkeepers about their day-to-day activities, have made a rather permanent mark on my character. What started as a love affair with glasses has evolved into an irrevocable love affair with Patuatuli.

IZA is an A Level student.