A night in Mawa
By Ayman Anika
There’s something oddly cinematic about driving to Mawa at night. No city noise, no blaring horns, no half-hearted honks from rickshaw drivers asking for way. Just empty roads, the low hum of the car, and an unsaid excitement bubbling quietly among friends who, like me, believe that good food is reason enough to cross districts.
We weren’t in a rush. That’s the thing about travelling at night — you’re not racing against daylight or dodging Dhaka’s usual chaos. The city dissolves behind you. What replaces it is stillness. Fields emerge like dark tapestries on either side of the highway. Shops with half-closed shutters pass by like flickering memories. The road curves, narrows, then suddenly opens, and just like that, you’re in Mawa.
By the time we arrived, a gentle drizzle had begun. The kind of rain that doesn’t threaten, just comforts. The kind that reminds you you’re no longer in the city. Windows down, rain mist on our faces, we finally pulled up to Leaf Lounge, a relatively new spot that feels more like a secret garden than a restaurant.
Lit softly from within, the building stood like a glowing greenhouse — not flashy, not trying to impress, just quietly confident in its design. Glass walls framed by wild greenery, open seating that allowed the sound of rain to drift in, and the earthy scent of wet soil rising up from the surrounding landscape — it felt less like arriving at a restaurant and more like stumbling into someone’s very beautiful dream.
Inside, the ambiance was a contrast — refined but grounded. The warmth of wooden accents, soft lighting, and the occasional splash of green inside blurred the line between architecture and nature. If serenity had a texture, this was it.
But let’s not pretend we came just for the décor. We came for the hilsha.
And oh, what a hilsha it was.
Cooked to delicate perfection, the fish arrived on our table still steaming, its familiar silver skin glistening. The aroma — equal parts nostalgia and celebration — filled the air before the plate even hit the table. The texture was soft but not mushy, the flavor rich but not overwhelming. It didn’t need drama. This was hilsha cooked with respect, not flashiness. Served alongside saffron rice, the pairing felt regal — subtle sweetness from the saffron, savory depth from the fish, and that unmistakable hit of mustard that lets you know this is Bangladeshi cuisine at its confident best.
But the meal didn’t stop there. We ordered generously, as one does when the rain blurs the world outside and you feel no particular urgency to go back. There were grilled meats with a smoky finish, and a vegetable medley so thoughtfully prepared that it didn’t feel like a sideshow. Every dish seemed designed not just to fill the stomach, but to linger on the tongue, to ask you to slow down and really taste.
We laughed, we ate, we sat back in silence more than once — the kind of silence that only comes when your senses are full and satisfied. Occasionally, the lights flickered, as if nature wanted a bit of attention again. The rain picked up, drumming more insistently against the glass, making the whole space feel like a safe cocoon in the middle of nowhere.
Mawa at night is not the Mawa people often talk about. It’s not about the daytime crowd, the boat rides, or the riverside rush. It’s quieter, more introspective. It invites you to observe, not perform. To listen — to your own thoughts, to your friends’ laughter, to the rain, and to the gentle reminder that sometimes the best journeys are the ones taken after dark, with no particular plan except to be together and eat well.
We left Leaf Lounge reluctantly, our hearts full, our clothes slightly damp, our cravings thoroughly satisfied. The ride back was slower. Sleepy, even. But something had shifted. A calm, a sense of being part of something timeless — not just a restaurant visit, but a sensory experience stitched together by food, rain, friendship, and the feeling of being away yet entirely at home.
Mawa gave us more than a meal. It gave us a night that asked for no filters, no posts, no updates — just presence. And in a world of constant noise, that felt like the most delicious part of all.
