Waqar A. Khan
It was the Dhaka of 1970. Unlike today, it was then a laidback
provincial capital city. I was a student at Notre Dame College. History
was my forte. On a wintry Sunday, a weekly holiday in those days, I
decided to take a leisurely heritage tour of Old Dhaka in the afternoon
on a rickshaw. The traffic was sparse. Old Dhaka was easily accessible. I
enjoyed looking at the array of century-old buildings that I slowly
passed by in Nawabpur and Islampur—a curious medley of hybridised
architectural styles. Finally, the rickshaw having skirted around the
rabbit warren of Shankharipatti and, thereafter, a maze of circuitous,
labyrinthine alleyways arrived at the big wooden gate of the Armenian
Apostolic Church of the Holy Resurrection, built in 1781 in Armanitola.
The postern gate was slightly ajar. I went in. The kindly, soft spoken
elderly Armenian priest with a flowing white beard was ministering to
his flock. The church service had ended in the morning, but a few
elderly Armenians were still there. The priest spoke to me briefly about
the history of the church in English with a heavy accent. There was an
ineffable sadness in his rheumy eyes. Perhaps, he was worried about the
fast dwindling Armenian worshippers at the church and with it—its
ultimate fate! It seemed that he was gazing at a bleak future with grave
concern.
