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Located in the heart of Gulshan, Dhaka's growing business and diplomatic district, The Westin Dhaka is only 20 minutes from Hazrat Shahjalal International Airport (DAC) and close to international embassies, corporate offices, and the largest shopping mall in South Asia.

Five restaurants and bars invite you to take a journey through delicious international cuisine.

A year’s worth of Alsana banging away at the old Singer machine that sat in the kitchen, sewing together pieces of black plastic for a shop called Domination in Soho (many were the nights Alsana would hold up a piece of clothing she had just made–following the plans she was given–and wonder what on earth it was).

A year’s worth of Samad softly inclining his head at exactly the correct deferential angle, pencil in his right hand, notepad in his left, listening to the appalling pronunciation of the British, Spanish, American, French, Australian: Go Bye Ello Sag, Please. From six in the evening until four in the morning was work and the rest was sleep, sleep without pause, until daylight was as rare as a decent tip.

Decorated in a sleek, contemporary style, each of the rooms offers free high-speed Wi Fi Internet access along with international standard bath amenities, tea and coffees.

Families appreciate the convenience of 6 interconnecting rooms.

n the spring of 1975, Samad and Alsana Iqbal left Bangladesh and came to live in Whitechapel, London, the other side of town from Archie and Clara Jones.

Samad and Archie had a friendship dating back to the Second World War, back to the hot and claustrophobic Churchill tank in which they sat side by side for three months, close enough to smell each other and to recognize those scents thirty years later when Samad emerged from Gate 12, Heathrow, with a young wife and a paisley patterned luggage set in tow.

‘Long time no see,’ Archie had said, reaching out to grasp his old friend’s palm, but Samad converted the handshake into a hug almost immediately, They fell back into easy conversation, two old boys slipping swiftly into an acquaintance as comfortable as slippers while their wives stood either side of the bags noting they had this thing in common and no more: that they were young, much younger than the men they stood awkwardly beside. Alsana was small and rotund, moon-faced and with thick fingers she hid in the folds of her cardigan.

Clara was tall, striking, a black girl with a winning smile, wearing red shorts of a shortness that Alsana had never imagined possible, even in this country.

‘Hot pants,’ said Clara, shyly, in response to Alsana’s wide eyes, ‘I made dem myself.’ ‘I sew also,’ Alsana replied, and they had a pleasant enough chat about seams and bobbins, materials and prices per yard, in a motorway service station over an indigestible lunch.