NTA

NTA means not to be answered. Use it in place of a pest’s name in your mobile. Do not pick up the phone. Do not even think about it. Leave it alone. Let it ring on the dresser. Hide it under a pillow. Leave the room until it stops.

 

There are many NTAs in this world, but my favourite is an acquaintance a friend made in Sylhet. Let’s call him Noddy. A few days ago he sent this little gem by text:

 

‘Hello “MATT”

 

How are you? I am well. I hope you are well.

 

Next news, I call your mobile: no: but you not receive, why? You are my FRIEND. I all time missed you. I and you journey to MADOAB KUNDO. Photo album I and you, big size one copy want.

 

I wish you every success in life.

 

FOR GET ME NOT.’

 

Before I translate this heartfelt missive, here’s a little background. Noddy is a tour guide based in Sylhet, a city in north Bangladesh. He took a friend of mine to a famous waterfall spending little more than an afternoon with him. Now, the translation:

 

‘Hello “MATT” If that is your name!

 

How are you? I am well. I hope you are well. I’m getting on very well without you.

 

Next news, I call your mobile: no: but you not receive, why? Are you ignoring me? You are my FRIEND. Guilt trip. I all time missed you. I am a needy black hole of love. I and you journey to MADOAB KUNDO. Don’t you remember the good times we had together? Photo album I and you, big size one copy want. Without this, I’m not serious. The other stalkers will laugh at me.

 

I wish you every success in life. Weep!

 

FOR GET ME NOT. And now I end it all. Goodbye.’

 

21-11-2006 – Finger Mouse

 

‘Oh shit, she stuck her finger in my palm!’

 

‘What?’

 

‘She stuck her finger in my palm when we shook hands man!’

 

‘Yeah, so what?’

 

‘That means she wants to fuck me.’

 

When Mark told me this I didn’t believe him. Not the finger part, but what it means. Apparently, it’s the universal sign for I want to shag you. I didn’t believe him, but other people assure me it’s true too and recent events have convinced me it means something – something funny. A few days later we where in Old Dhaka trying to sneak into the Pink Palace, a large mansion on the river, to take some photos. We didn’t get very far and as we sat forlornly around the gate a throng formed. The crowds in Old Dhaka are so much more intense – bigger, more persistent in their attention and altogether weirder and more unsavoury. We picked ourselves up, answered the usual questions about our names and country and shook a few hands. A little man, thin and oily looking like a weasel covered in grease, held out his hand. I took it, and… no, the finger and a loving look. Perhaps it’s called the Pink Palace for another reason?