Hakim, Anwar, Rana and I are running through the mango orchard. Yes, we are sick of crossing these same rows of trees and walking these same patches of grass but what to do? It’s another morning in Kamalpara, so the blazing afternoon sun is no surprise. Hamza is chasing us. We enjoy it the most when he is the police and we’re thieves. He has the speed to outrun a leopard and that thrills us. Before, before we arrived at Kamalpara, I mean, we had our entire village—Rahmatpur—to ourselves. We could run across the paddy and maize fields stretching and stretching to the horizon and kissing the clouds, across the forests skirting the riverbanks, past the mosque, the school, the madrasa, the post office, the rich landowners’ moss-strewn bungalows, past whatnot. But in Kamalpara, we have only the mango orchard, the undergrowth behind the pit latrines and the pond, and the maze of black, grey and white tents that has sprung up on the empty field opposite the school compound. Why? Because this village is not spacious enough to accommodate all of us and so the landowners’ alliance sketched up the plan. The people here have been kind to let us stay in the first place. It would be wrong if we took up their entire space, they said.

Here, we have to:

—Wait in long lines to eat. Eat what? Bland rice and watery lentils. That too, twice a day! It would have been nice to eat rice with meat and fish and vegetables three times a day like back home. This is why our ribs are always showing. Our veins, our eyes have popped out.

—Wait in long lines to bathe in the crowded green pond. I have lost count of the number of times I have pushed a man or a boy out of my way so hard that they fall on the slimy green earth. My impatience always leads to verbal and physical fighting between them and others mistaken to be the perpetrators. It is a good thing that the spectacle serves as a nice timepass for the poor, stinking, sweating souls who cannot wait to jump into the water.

• Tags: Bangladesh, Issue 29, Shah Tazrian Ashrafi