I’ve lived in Dhaka for over 25 years. I still don’t fit in

Nothing about me - from my name, to my height, to my personality – fits comfortably in Dhaka city

I do not fit in Dhaka. Both literally and figuratively.

And I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard that my perception of life has shifted. I’ve adapted so much that I have trouble recognising myself. But I can’t. 

Especially in a city where even my height makes me stand out. 

Many people dream of being taller than the average Bangladeshi. They think it’s a luxury that brings with it attractiveness and charm. But I have to say, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows up here. In fact, all you really get is more air pollution.

I’m not a giant, but my height – a little over six feet – is a constant nuisance in Dhaka. It’s nearly impossible to find shirts that fit or shoes of my size. None of the local brands fit me, and the only shoes available are super expensive imports that make me look awkward.

But perhaps it was destiny. After all, I was cursed from birth with two paternal surnames – Khan and Thakur - two names associated with two different religions. Since the age of five, the combination has confused teachers and classmates and brought down tons of judgmental opinions on my head. 

If that wasn’t enough, I was a scrawny kid. Not only was I always picked last for sports, but my weak body also made me an easy target for bullies. 

You may think my lack of physical grace was made up for with a flair for the creative arts. Nope. My siblings were prodigies - my sister was a natural singer and dancer, and my brother a quick study at musical instruments. They became the shining examples used to bludgeon the neighbourhood kids into feeling inadequate. Meanwhile, the genetic lottery felt like it skipped me entirely, to my parents’ evident dismay.    

Instead of tearing up the field with my athletic prowess or charming the locals with my musical genius, I spent weekends glued to the TV screen watching Nickelodeon shows or playing Sega games on our old CRT monitor. Even as I tried to pay attention to SpongeBob’s usual squeak, my mother screamed at me to study. 

I didn’t gel with my classmates at school either. Before the summer holidays, the kids would discuss the grand plans for the break. I never had any plans. Left to my own devices, I barely knew what to do. When we returned from holiday, they would share stories of everything they got up to. Not only did I have nothing to share, but I also didn’t understand the things they were so excited about.

Such a problematic childhood. Looking back, I think I was trying to take a break from the pressures and expectations of the real world by focusing on imaginary places and people I could relate to more easily.

They say diamonds are chunks of coal that do well under pressure. But what about all the lumps of coal that crumbled? I would be one of those. No matter how many times I was forcefully taught something, I could never replicate it. 

I want to tell you that puberty ended this awkwardness, but that’s not true. I hit my growth spurt in fifth grade and shot up to 5’8. The change in height made me stand out more than ever before. I felt like I was suddenly shoved onto a big stage and asked to defend myself. I fumbled it. 

People started to pick me first for basketball games. The problem was that I didn’t learn how to play until much later.

My voice broke, too, growing much deeper. It often took people by surprise and creeped them out. I wasn’t quietly awkward anymore. I was big and loud and couldn’t be ignored. Suddenly, everyone could see my weird tics and habits. Approaching my high school crush was entirely out of the question. 

Despite all this, I did try and fit in. I thought of myself as an oddly-shaped puzzle piece and kept looking for where I was meant to be. I went out of my way to push my comfort zone and mix with different crowds. But every time, it felt like I was trying to cram myself into a space I didn’t belong.

I was interested in the book club until I learned they considered comic books low-quality trash that mocked modern-day literature. Now, some of those same club members rush to the cinema to watch every Marvel movie and talk about the depth of their favourite characters. The audacity.

I tried the debate club too, but I found a startling lack of common sense beneath their bluster and confidence.

The sports teams were enthused to have me join, but eventually, they realised I wasn’t the best fit for any particular position, and I ended up on the sidelines as the waterboy.

My teachers tried to help. They encouraged me in various interests that could blossom into a future endeavour or a career. But I found it hard to dedicate myself to anything specific. Still, they insisted I was just a late bloomer and my ‘hidden talents’ would manifest eventually. Unfortunately, somebody needed to tell them my life wasn’t a Disney movie.  

I emerged from the apocalyptic trials of the English Medium education system badly scathed but determined to start my journey to adulthood. Undergrad life, looked on so fondly by many, could be my salvation.

But first, I had to get to university. 

And, while I’m too tall to fit in a clown car, I think my experience of public buses had the same mix of congestion, absurdity, and madness. Four or five days a week, I stuffed myself into seats with barely enough room for my legs and waited in the traffic gridlock amid the smog-filled air and deafening noise. The weather was unforgiving too.

Four years of such treatment would drive any sane person mad. But Dhaka is full of people for whom it’s the norm. And, perhaps, I was never quite sane to begin with. 

Despite the 20,000 students at my university, I hardly made any friends in my first year. The lecturers droned on and on with outdated theories that didn’t fit our current reality. They didn’t do many practical experiments either, so grasping the main concepts became more difficult. 

In my spare time, I dove into extracurricular activities, trying to keep the hopes of my high school teachers alive. None of them quite came to fruition. By the end of my undergrad, it was unclear whether I was chasing my degree or whether it was chasing me off a cliff. 

But, despite it all, I met a lot of people and had many experiences. And, in the end, I learned many life lessons.

One of them was that I didn’t have to fit in.

Yes, that’s right. 

As I’ve come to accept more things about myself and my life, I’ve come to understand that I am not alone in the inability to find a space of my own. I’ve met many other outcasts struggling with the challenges of life.

Some of them are super social extroverts, others reclusive hermits. Some are physically strong and active, others wildly creative.

But the people who seemed to have it figured out are those comfortable with who they are. And if the world didn’t have a place for them, they carved out their own. 

Now, as I slave away in the corporate world, I have little time to reflect on my experiences and all I’ve learnt from them. But I think I’ve realised that it’s okay to be myself. Maybe this oddly-shaped puzzle piece doesn’t have to be part of some grand design.

That I can keep going, even if it’s by myself. 

But I’m still desperate for a comfortable pair of cheap shoes for the journey. 

This article is part of Stripe, bdnews24.com's special publication focusing on culture and society from a youth perspective.