#7. Diary of a Renter

Reminiscing memories across cities, continents and rented properties. 🇧🇩🇬🇧

One of my most enduring childhood memories is from a wet and windy Dhaka night. It plays inside my head like a single-episode Netflix series streaming exclusively for me. My eldest sister Nadila is skidding across a rain drenched balcony, her small body silhouetted against stormy April skies. The lights are out, thanks to 'load shedding', and our candlelit apartment is swirling in rainwater. I imagine it being a nuisance for my mother but for us, the carefree children of the house, it was all hands - and legs - on adventure deck. We were busy playing hide and seek with our flickering shadows, oblivious to domestic inconveniences, pouncing precariously over flooded floor tiles. Decades later, I would stumble into a London restaurant, over these exact same tiles: monochrome, geometric, oozing with old Dhaka charm. The unexpected rendezvous so far away from home would completely disarm me. But at that moment inside that rain-flooded scene, London was as untouchable as the jagged lightning in the sky.

This 'balcony' where my memory unfolds is unusual as far as Dhaka balconies go. It ran the entire length of our rented apartment. As soon as you opened the main door, you were in it, looking straight down into the kitchen at the far end. It was half brick, half iron-grill windows. To the right you had a living room and two bedrooms, housing my entire family: parents, 4 siblings, and 2 maternal aunts.

The length of the balcony lent itself to many adventures, serving as a congregation spot rivalling the living room. The monochrome patterned tiles gave it unforgettable character, a symbol of the fused architectural styles of old Dhaka. Unbeknownst to me, these patterns would become stepping stones, connecting my life across cities and continents, from the alleyways of Dhanmondi, Dhaka to the interiors of Dishoom, London. One of UK's most popular deshi eateries, Dishoom is a regular haunt for me. Amidst the memory-evoking tilework, wafting incense, and sepia-tinged posters, the nostalgic Bengali in me feels right at home.

We moved into this 'home' in Dhanmondi with the rectangular balcony shortly after my father's sudden demise. My memories begin here, which is probably why their preservation has become such an unconscious habit. My mother and step-dad got married within these walls. I have snatched memories of that day, bolstered by precious old photos of a small, intimate, in-house wedding. I love these photos and how ridiculously young Ammu and Abbu look. Not many people I know have been a part of their parents' big day. Labelled (rather unkindly) as a 'broken family' by society, ours was a special broken family nonetheless.

I travel back to that stormy night inside that flooded balcony quite often. My mother has rustled up one of her delicious dinners. Or maybe this dinner was served on a separate night - after all, dramatic storms and load shedding were frequent Dhaka occurrences. But in my mind that storm and this dinner flow as one continuous event. I remember the gastronomic details because it was such a departure from the usual repertoire of Bengali meals - a beef and bean stew, deshified yet different, served over hot rice. The beans had flown into Bangladesh in my Khala's suitcase from some foreign land - America? - and paired with the meat, here was a dish rich in umami. My Ammu has a knack for making finger-licking fusion food that would fit right in with the menus at Dishoom.

Another food-centric memory of mine hails from another rented home, this time from the opposite end of Dhaka. It was the beginning of the millennium, and 5 of us (me, my sisters and my first cousin) were attending the same English medium school. The youngest amongst us was about to join kindergarten, the oldest was studying towards GCEs. When the school migrated to a brand new campus in Uttara, our families packed up and followed suit.

Uttara was not very developed back in 2000. Despite moving into the busiest area (Sector-1), the neighbourhood felt sparse and quiet compared to the buzz of Dhanmondi. Amidst scattered cardboard boxes, and discarded bubble wrap, a scrambled egg dish emerged, cooked over a portable stovepot and served with haste. It was not something Ammu would make again once the kitchen was up and running. I can almost taste that memory, the texture of chunky onions and chopped chillies searing our tired mouths. The beauty of simple food rescuing us in chaos sealed that memory in a special corner of my brain, resisting purges that have managed to delete more significant life events.

This Uttara home became a bearer of history that would mark our lives forever. I remember the exact moment we watched the twin towers fall in our boxed TV (2001). I am still under the spell of the iconic Saathiyan soundtrack that consumed us whole the second it was released (2002). Every room in that house rang with A.R. Rahman's melodious tunes for days. The smallest was occupied by my parents, the second one was mine and Khala's, the third was my elder sisters'. This arrangement remained as we transitioned to our next home, within the same sector, wading into the turbulence of teenhood in quick succession. I sat my 'O' and 'A' level exams, forged lifelong friendships, listened to Craig David and Avril Lavigne on repeat, consumed Fear Street and Sweet Valley books, applied to UK universities on UCAS. When I left 'home' (2008), this is the house where I left from, not quite knowing that I was leaving for good.

My next 'home' was far, far away, in a dorm room in Glasgow. It had a large window overlooking the West of Scotland Science Park. The air was fresh, too fresh, and the food was bland. I had my first taste of haggis and anglicised curries here, which would later make me grateful for Dishoom. 3 years of living in a catered dorm left me no option other than to embrace it. I looked forward to returning home from the intensity of a long day of EEE classes to a steaming plate of spaghetti Bolognese. Or waking up late on weekends to a hearty bowl of mushroom soup. I built some core food memories timestamping that era that are very dear to me.

My next home was a makeshift shed in a North London garden. I spent ten not-so-happy months holed up in this tiny space, looking for a job, fighting inner demons, and hating the process. In June 2012, I bagged a graduate role, moved into a studio flat in Ealing, and officially kicked off adulthood. This was the point in my life when I started noticing the conversations around renting. In the UK, getting on the property ladder is the ultimate status symbol of having 'made it'. People start saving for their first home from as early as their late teens. Many live frugally for years to prioritise saving up for that all-important deposit. As I quickly learnt, paying around £1k in rent as a graduate engineer was considered stupid by many on the same salary as me (and above). And I was never quite allowed to forget that.

But here's the thing. I grew up as a renter in a part of the world where owning homes is the exception, not the norm. So no matter how many jokes I heard about 'working to pay someone else's mortgage', I thoroughly enjoyed having my own space. My Ealing home, as I loved to call it, was the lucky charm that finally turned me into a cook. It is the home where I finally got over my fear of using the oven. Where my husband and I started our martial life in the UK, circa 2015. 9 years on, we are still renters. During this time we moved into a 2 bed flat in Southampton, welcomed our first child, moved back to a 2 bed flat in London, and welcomed our second child. Renting has never felt like a block, or a non-ideal backdrop, to building beautiful memories and a meaningful life with my family.

15 years of living in a society where house ownership is the ultimate holy grail does get to you. Of course it does. It would be a dream come true to own a family home that I can decorate to my heart's content. To have a garden where I can sip endless cups of tea and host my sons' birthday parties. But that doesn't mean that my life across rented properties hasn’t been rich and fulfilling.

A lot of people I know talk about their childhood home. I wouldn't know. I have never felt particularly wistful about it though. I don't have a childhood home, I have many. I cannot return to them physically, but I often visit them in my mind. You can take a tenant out of a rented home but you can never take that home out of the tenant (and their Facebook albums).

You may be a renter, but the memories you make across scattered ‘homes’ are yours to own. Forever. :)