The Problem of Space

Bangladeshis do not have the same perception of personal space that Americans do. Yesterday evening Bideshi 1 and I had some time to kill in Gulshan 2 while waiting for Tuni and Clay (the fulbrighter couple whose apartment we will be taking over in December) to meet us for dinner. Jen likes pretty fabric. So we went into a nice sari store to browse. Inside the store we were greeted with a polite nod from a salesman. No words were exchanged. Jen and I started to browse. We took a few steps down one aisle. About six feet back, the salesman took a few steps in our direction. Jen stroked some saris and exclaimed over the colors and the workmanship. I glanced nervously over my shoulder. The salesman smiled and nodded. We took a few steps further down the aisle. The salesman took a few steps behind us. Jen fondled some more pretty fabric - Oh isn’t this lovely - Look at the embroidery – Can you believe that this is all hand made, fishing for some response from me. I cast more furtive glances behind me at the salesman. Why is he following us? He hasn’t said anything. Does he speak English? Can he follow our conversation? I wish he would just go back to the counter or something. Jen turns down another aisle. I follow. The salesman follows six feet behind. This is really starting to bug me. Jen exclaims over more fabric. Grumpy now and preoccupied, I don’t respond. She says, o look this is Georgette. The salesman says that is muslin this here is Georgette. So he does speak English and he is listening to our conversation. Aaaaaa now I’m really uncomfortable. Jen notices my sour face. What’s the matter? Do you want to leave? Are you unhappy here? This is her big fear. That I will be unhappy here and that somehow I’ll blame her. This is fine, I say. Damn that damn salesman. Why won’t he leave us alone? Why does it bother me? It shouldn’t bother me. He’s there to be helpful, to answer our questions. He’s happy to have us in his shop. Arrg, I just wish he would stop following me. After a twenty minute eternity I finally admit to Jen that I’d like to leave. We exit the shop back out into the hustle and bustle and stench of the street. Let’s go to Coffee Eleven and wait there for Tuni and Clay, I suggest. Coffee Eleven is a chique little coffee shop that could be in any college town in America. The setting is familiar and comforting. I order a latté and feel the tension slip away.