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15 I place one foot then the other on each narrow, rusty step to where the concrete floor is rough and raised as a calloused hand. The speakers from the green-domed mosque click on, heralding the start of adhan, call to prayer. Other adhans start up, overlap like a choral round, surround me with rich, thrumming Arabic. The sun sets past rooftops, lush green trees, women hurrying past lithe, dark men holding hands. Dusk settles. Each window carved into Dhaka’s many high-rises begins to flicker with light. ...

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