In one such trip to a global industrial power, for a surreptitious scheme revolving around the “beautification” of an important road in Dhaka city, the touring team comprised of every profession but architects, landscape architects, urban designers, town planners, sculptors, painters, and historians worthy of their respective professions. The Bangladesh delegation, sponsored by a trade concern, (yes they were very much concerned about their trade) was being looked after well by a Chinese supplier of street furniture, pots and plants, equal to the task of commercial transaction.

Overwhelmed by the courtesy of the vendor, represented by some very dignified ladies, our non-technical PD, his wife's avatar looming large over his head, managed to stammer at one point, 'Bon sai', meaning he wanted the ladies to be his sisters. Innocent enough.

The sales ladies, eager to further beef up the Chinese economy, exclaimed in a chorus, "Bon sai? Bon sai?"

Our godo-godo karmokarta (beguiled officer) was ecstatic, "Yes, yessss".

"How many?" the ladies crooned in chorus.

"Many, many" drooled our man of the hour. Avatar now a bit hazy.

"But they are all Chinese-looking," the foreign landscape manager tried to explain, "and will not be at all suitable for Bangla-desh".

"Our people very fond of foreign, many-many people from everywhere living in our beautiful country", clarified the idiot.

“Yes, of course! But it is beautiful because of your Parul, Chandan, Neem, Shimul, Mahua, Aparajita. . . ”

“Oh my God, you know many-many Bengali girls' names,” blurted PD mohodoy. The landscape architect waved his arms in disgust, rolled his eyes in bewilderment, and walked away, an embodiment of dejected failure.

All the while, the PD's new-found bons were gleefully giggling, at the possibility of a big contract.

“You have Facebook?” asked the PD to one of the girls, now uncomfortably writing a voucher under his breath.

“Sorry, no understand fesbuk tree,” said she, “I shall have to call our landscape architect.”

That, in short, is the speculative tale of how the roadside opposite the Hazrat Shahjalal International Airport became bedecked with bonsai trees. Ugly, yes. Portraying Bangladesh, no. Condemned by professionals, yes. Aesthetic, no. Was national interest washed in the waters of the Yangtze? Yes. Expensive, very!

Some of our minds are in a constant state of bonsai. So many Bangla words defining 'inferiority' come to mind. Why else should some government as well as private orgs still consider recruiting foreigners for projects that can easily be handled by Bangladeshis?

Bangladeshis are now constructing, metaphorically speaking, it seems one flyover per month. And yet, once upon a time we were shown the 'high court' when the first one was erected at Mohakhali. Its commissioning was delayed for months because the bideshi constructor was purportedly importing STUs (shock transmission units), an earthquake damage inhibitor, whose design philosophy has since been substituted by the now preferred method of structural isolation. Since the Kuril Interchange project was entrusted on local expertise, led by a famous Bangladeshi, our home-grown engineers and constructors are flying over with confidence.

Sceptics will finger-point safety lapses, albeit a couple, at Bahaddarhat (“13 dead at Chittagong”, November 24, 2012) and Malibagh (one dead at Dhaka, 13 March 2017). But, that has everything to do with our generally slack safety comportment and disregard towards any regime, and little with the ability of our professionals.