Our plane lands at 1pm in the afternoon Bangladeshi time on the Friday - just when the sun is at its highest point during the summer season here so the temperature is in the mid-thirties.
Although I have been flying now for over 14 hours, it's not the jet lag that hits me nor the ache in my back from being rammed in my seat for so long but instead it is the sheer intensity of the heat that slaps me across the face the moment the doors open and we step outside; the heat and the aches combined, I suddenly realise what it must feel like to be a piece of prime steak hammered to shit to tenderise and then be thrown into the grill and it is not nice, "Although I'm sure Hannibal Lecter would enjoy a good bite out of me," I smirk to myself.
The muffled sounds in the distance as we disembark are incredible even from the runway and with engines constantly starting up and slowing down around us, as we walk towards the terminal.
I can hear the noise of the traffic on the roads and it brings a smile to my face. Unlike the reserved West, cars are honking their horns loudly to let others know they are turning a corner or coming through - indicators? What indicators?! I can hear the sound of scooters blasting and rattling smoke out of their exhausts and know that they are extra loud as they have been converted into three wheeled passenger carriers so are screaming out due to the sheer strain on their little engines originally meant for transporting two. But best of all, I hear the cries of folk trying to sell goods to the unsuspecting tourists and quickly imagine the poor tourists blatantly paying over the odds due to the weak Taka to the Pound or Dollar and thinking they have a real bargain but not realising haggling is the norm here and they could have got away with paying less than half the price on the labels.
For a moment I completely lose myself - it has been 10 years since I have managed to make time to return to this beautiful but totally chaotic country, and it feels great.
My sister breaks me out of my trance as she asks me to check I have my passport reminding me that one of the reasons we do not live in Bangladesh is because it is rife with crime in particular pick-pocket theft, and British passports are high on the criminal wish list as forged correctly, it is their golden ticket out of the country - a Dick Whittington Complex I like to call it, where they seem to think in the West, the streets are paved with gold.
My smile turns itself on its head to a frown as I check my pockets sighing heavily as I do, and then I produce my golden ticket to my sister after going through 4 pockets, "I haven't forgotten dude - I'm wearing my army trousers for a reason. Even I don't know where my passport is so how much more secure does it need to be?"
Before I even need to show my passport though what I can only assume is security, suddenly appears out of nowhere all dressed in black (although no sunglasses or guns in sight to my disappointment)and they speak to the officer at the check point pointing at us and then approach us and usher all three of us out of the enormous queue to what can only be described as a secret passage hidden behind the walls.
I am slightly nervous due to the menacing look of the officers escorting us but all settles down when one of my uncles appear to greet us already with all our luggage on trolleys, once we are through the winding hallways. I had totally forgotten that we had a relative who worked for the airport and am relieved to see him!
Married to one of mum's sisters, he is a short stocky little man in a safari suit a size too small so you can see every crease of his belly but whilst this should be distracting his eyes are extremely focused and you can't help but look at them or look away. He does not smile when he sees us though but as is to be expected, his face is solemn and the hug he gives each of us speaks volumes. Dad tries to speak to him seeing as we have not seen him in years but his response is short and to-the-point, "Dada has everything sorted as discussed," he says to dad, "so we need to get going."
Immediately I stop thinking like a Westerner and more like a Bangladeshi - we have jumped the queue because of not who we are as Brits, but who we are as Bangladeshis.
If being the son of a neuro-surgeon and well known journalist and author whilst growing up was not enough to put pressure on one to try make something of his life, try being the favourite nephew of a highly decorated military freedom fighter, who then became a General and just before retiring, went into politics and reached the dizzying heights of becoming a major player in Bangladesh's House of Parliament!
Yep, suddenly I remembered we weren't normal people in Bangladesh but something more akin to celebrity so security needed to be tight; normally this would be a good thing and something I would relish having dreamt of being famous like my mum since childhood, "but surely now was not the time" I muse.
My uncle walks along side dad explaining what the plans are but in usual Bangladeshi fashion, my sister and I are left out of the conversation and expected to walk two steps behind them as we are children - which despite my eagerness to tell my uncle that we have not been brought up to be foot soldiers, I seem to adhere to - my Bangladeshi instincts clearly taking over.
Still, we have an entourage of security around us and several men pushing our luggage trolleys so for a moment I ignore my previous conjecture of now not being the time and try to enjoy feeling famous - I puff up my chest, pull my sunglasses over my eyes and walk in a swagger as I wave to the cleaners and other security staff.
My sister watches me for a moment and starts giggling but stops as quickly as she started as dad turns to look at both of us sternly reminding us that this is not a happy occasion and that we cannot put a foot wrong.
We make it to the exit and the doors open and the first thing I notice are huge metal railings all around, leaving just enough room for cars to drive through to drop off and pick up passengers. There are guards standing on either side of the roads armed with rifles escorting cars in and out and keeping the vagabonds and beggars as well as just the spectators there to see the foreigners arrive, away from the doors and the luggage.
I then notice the three people carriers in front of us - all of which it takes me a while to realise, are for us.
Luggage is thrown into one filling it almost to the brim as we have brought so much stuff - mostly bags full of presents mum had bought over the years that she planned to distribute amongst her nearest and dearest as well as the poor, a wish we intended to fulfill - whilst doors to the other cars are closed and the windows of all the vehicles are black so we cannot even see who is inside.
My uncle speaks to dad and I overhear him saying perhaps my sister and I should travel to Dada's house to freshen up and rest and he would take dad over to the cargo bay to collect mum and before dad can say anything, I interrupt quite abruptly, "We travelled here as a family - we continue our journey together as a family - all four of us, father, mother, sister and brother - until we say farewell to mum and not a moment before."
My uncle is clearly surprised by my rudeness and looks at dad for what I can only assume is an indirect request to get him to put me in my place and not bother the elders when they are speaking but dad reasserts my authority, "Like my son said, we stand together even if Allah has prevented us from dying together."
"A tad dramatic!" I think to myself as both myself and my sister move in closer to stand next to dad in the stereotypical One for All and All for One stance but it has the desired effect and my uncle turns to instruct the carrier with our luggage to head off with us playing catch up later.
Before he gets to the second carrier though, the door flies open and mum's youngest brother and two lanky boys step out. They have been taking their time coming out into the incredibly humid heat which has already made me sticky with sweat, enjoying the beauty of air conditioning but watching our every move through the darkened windows and realising plans were changing, decided to step into the arena and find out what was happening.
I recognise mum's younger brother instantly having had him visit us in England previously - about average height and build with a gold tooth - he heads over to us and attempts to hug me and for reasons probably best saved for later, I very begrudgingly hug him back but try to make as little contact with him as possible as if he were diseased and don't even try to hide my disgust.
The boys however, look familiar and I am certain they are our cousins from my mum's side but I am unsure as to which ones they are and my sister does not do much better.
There is a moment of awkwardness but to break the ice, I use my most serious tone and say to them "I have no idea who you are! Are you our servants?".
Being older than them, the cousins don't know how to react as they are unsure if I am joking in which case they are obliged to laugh or am deadly serious, in which case they must adhere by the rule that the elders are always right and behave as though they were our servants initially at least and not be so impertinent to tell us immediately that we were wrong!
Before they say anything though, I laugh and give them both a joint bear hug, "Only kidding guys - I know who you are; you're my cousins...I have no idea how you're related to me but it's a start right?!"
They are visibly over the moon that they have been identified as relatives and not hired help and look especially pleased that they are the first of our plethora of cousins to not just see us, but actually touch us - the famous cousins who live in the West - but before they can say anything, my uncle practically pushes me and my sister into the carrier my dad is already in, cooling down under the breeze and whirr of the fan that the driver has on.
He orders mum's younger brother and the cousins to get into their vehicle without further delay as we needed to move on and shouts at both drivers to get going and his methods though effective, somewhat riles me.
I feel irritated and annoyed that my arrival to Bangladesh has been so rushed and that the moment I was about to reconnect to family I forgot I even had, I was being moved along to the next thing but I tell myself I must exert more self control as the carrier bumps and shakes over the poorly maintained roads away from the airport entrance towards the back.
So I take a deep breath and try to sit back in my seat and relax but my attempts are short lived as the cargo bay becomes visible through the windscreen and I see a crowd of camera men, reporters and workers crowded round the entrance and realise why my uncle did not want us there.
My heart begins to race and my irritation starts mutating into anger less towards him but more towards our situation; my emotions written across my face. My sister reaches out and holds my hand.
"Why couldn't we have had a quiet service for mum - one with no crowds, no strangers - only those that loved her?" I say under my breath as I stare out of the window towards the media circus awaiting us.
Dad looks at me, "Keep strong son. Keep strong like your mummy always did even through her last days. This is only the start - and if you want to get to the end, remember: only the fittest of us will get to see it."
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