In Old Dhaka Rikshas were all the time passing by while a man repaired his accordeon. Nearby the slums a man prayed through the mikro while another prepared food in a big pan.
In Dhanmondi i met a nice guy on the street, we talked and then he began to sing his song, he himself had composed
And some pictures:
the 4 brillant poets, translators in front of a monument for the murdered intellectuals