Wandering Dhaka: An Eid in sunflowers, perfume, and jhumkas
Through crowded streets and late-night stalls, a city comes alive in small joys, shared meals, and fleeting moments of magic in March.
Take a deep breath and take it all in. Only this Eid lets you do it because during Qurbani Eid, that same deep breath risks cow dung and the lingering stench of rawhide. Not so pleasant. But today, it's different. The air feels lighter, the scents sweeter, the city buzzing in a mellow, expectant rhythm.
The weather mirrors it all: heat at noon, a hint of spring in the morning, cool breezes at night; a little chaotic, a little magical.
Roads are slowly clearing as late-night shoppers wander in flocks, a sure sign Eid is inching closer. All the dressing up, feasting, and family visits are a reward after Ramadan's fasting – rest, perhaps, but more so a celebration of life, in every laugh, every light, every fleeting calm before the day's joyous chaos.
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But the anticipation grows. It shows in your shopping list, in the investment you make in a set of new clothes and a pair of new shoes, or in a genuine gift to yourself that you know would cost a third less later. But you buy it anyway. Because it's Eid.
You're not just buying, though – you're selling too. Setting up stalls, putting out roadside henna tables, popping up in shopping malls, or selling handmade jewellery and accessories. Back home, you craft simple things to kill boredom. Now, motivated by a friend or someone close, you turn these creations into ways to make another's Eid shopping a delight. Snacks, bottled perfumes, anything non-work-related that you wouldn't otherwise get paid for – suddenly, you are an entrepreneur, participating in someone else's celebration, contributing, and being contributed to in return.
And me? The ever-observer, drifting along Dhaka's heartbeat, collecting stories in my wake. A corner in Khilgaon on a March night. The streets pulse with life, and there it is: a single sunflower, vibrant under the dim streetlight.
"Only Tk100, mam," the seller says, holding it carefully.
I hand over the money, cradling the bloom, a small stolen moment of brightness in the city night. Another interested buyer walks in, fumbling through the keychains. He begins to bargain, asking for a discounted price. The girl gladly offers one. And I say to the guy, "Hey, contribute to her business here. Whatever you give her is only going to help her grow." Embarrassed, he pays and quickly walks away, while the girl and her friends giggle on the side. Achievement in the nuisance.
Spotted this small makeshift stall near Apon Coffee House. Behind it stands Raya – fresh out of her HSC exams from South Point, with big dreams and even bigger determination.
While many of her peers wait for university admissions – she's eyeing BRAC University or NSU, and even considering Australia – Raya chose to make her time count. What began as a way to pass time soon turned into something more meaningful. A mehedi course sparked her interest in handmade crafts, and YouTube tutorials led her deeper into a world of creativity. Soon, she was experimenting with pipe cleaners – turning them into sunflower keyrings, earrings, bracelets – and even exploring candle-making with moulds she ordered herself.
Her stall is a burst of colour: fuzzy wire flowers, delicate handmade jewelry, and neatly arranged candles. She also dabbles in origami and nail art, constantly expanding her skills.
Every evening, she earns between Tk1,000 to Tk1,500 – modest, but entirely her own. "Everyone sets up stalls during Eid," she says, "so I thought, why not me?"
For Raya, this may be the entrepreneurial future she's already building with her own hands.
Nearby, a young man arranges bottles of perfume, each branded, each expensive. He doesn't speak in currency but in milliliters.
"100 mls of this one is Tk1,000. Some buy 50, some 200," he says, showing the bottles gleaming under the streetlights.
People are buying in measure, a quiet indulgence for those who can afford it. I watch the careful dance of transactions, noticing the pride in his display.
A few steps later, jewellery glints under soft light. Jhumkas – the biggest I've seen in person – catch my eye.
"Made of brass with silver polish, madam. Very light, easy to wear," the seller explains, spreading them like treasures on a stand. I imagine each with a simple outfit, a festival look. I resist buying all of them in one go. I'll return tomorrow – I thought to myself.
Dhaka has a rhythm, and tonight, I am simply part of it.
All the while, I sip an orange lemonade from Coffee Lime, a companionable constant across the streets I roam these days – Dhanmondi, Khilgaon, Bailey Road. A drink from here is almost ritualistic, a thread connecting corners of the city I love.
And the company I keep? That's golden. Someone who shadows my steps as I shadow theirs, the roads weaving us through Dhaka, through the Eid 'moushum', absorbing its chaos and calm. After long office hours, this is the time to breathe in the city, to let life and streets merge for just a few hours.
And yes, we eat. Every night, a different dish, a new restaurant – Dhanmondi Road 28's shawarma, Moghbazar's sprawling hotels, Bailey Road's endless eateries. Each plate a story, sometimes leading back to the same beloved spots. Gaining weight? Or preparing the stomach for the Eid feast? Only time will tell.
Tonight, like every night this week, it's golden. The city, the food, the company, the little moments of discovery – they all belong here, in this fleeting, luminous Eid season.
