Old Dhaka-Belonging

Puran Dhaka, or Old Dhaka, was a rather unlikely subject. For it existed all around me. I live here. It was almost trying to find the unseen within the everyday. Old Dhaka had made me appreciate properly cooked greasy food, the sleaziest of slang, and it is where I had come to rediscover the same small town pulse of holding on to things than letting go. My own childhood years in Comilla, a small district town surrounded by mostly rural settings and steep with customs and old world lifestyle, had made me not just appreciate but rather feel at home with relations which emboldened from the duration of time spent and bordered on tradition more than trend. But through the frames, my Old Dhaka started to divulge unseen lives and throw back at me more agonising questions of assimilation, and even worse, deletion.

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Located in Bono… Pintu, pictured… While people of… Sunlight is ref… A young mother … Superman on the… Stairs of an ol… A man is talkin… The ferrywala i… Life is a wheel… Its midday and … This barber has… In the evening … The oldest gym … Asif Azim, is a… A band plays be… A joint family … A old woman sit… Horses are taki… The feeling of … A child hides h… A mixture of th… A labourer from… In the early ho… I took this pic…

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