It is a truth universally acknowledged—at least by those of us who haven’t lobotomized ourselves with undiluted optimism—that a political vacuum is offensive to nature. And so, in Bangladesh, the air rushes back in, smelling distinctly of fresh printer ink, humidity, and desperate ambition. Campaigning has begun for the nation's first election following the ouster of Sheikh Hasina, and one can almost hear the collective sigh of a history that refuses to stop repeating itself.

The curtain has risen on this particular theater of the absurd with remarkable speed. Hasina is gone, swept away by the tides of unrest that briefly masqueraded as revolution, and now comes the inevitable, tedious hangover: the democratic process. We are told that campaigning has officially commenced for elections scheduled next month. It is a frantic sprint toward legitimacy, a breathless attempt to slap a coat of paint on a crumbling edifice and call it a renovation. The interim government, having served its purpose as the uneasy substitute teacher while the classroom was on fire, is preparing to hand over the grade book. To whom? Well, that is the tragicomic punchline we are all waiting for.

There is something deeply quaint, almost touching, about the ritual of campaigning in a nation that has just convulsed itself free from an entrenched regime. It speaks to a persistent, almost pathological human need to believe that ticking a box on a piece of paper is a magical act capable of exorcising decades of institutional rot. The streets of Dhaka, undoubtedly, will now be adorned with the smiling faces of men and women who promise that *this time*, things will be different. They will promise stability, prosperity, and justice—the standard trifecta of lies that politicians globally sell to electorates who are too exhausted to check the receipt.

One must admire the logistical hubris of it all. Organizing a national election in a month, in a climate still radioactive from the fallout of a deposed autocrat, is the sort of bureaucratic suicide mission that only a government official could devise. It is not merely an election; it is a stress test for a bridge that has already collapsed. The sheer noise of it—the rallies, the loudspeakers, the slogans chanted by crowds who are likely unsure if they are cheering for salvation or merely venting spleen—will act as a deafening narcotic. It distracts from the uncomfortable reality that the machinery of state remains largely unchanged, regardless of who sits in the driver's seat.

Let us not forget the context, though the world’s attention span is shorter than a goldfish's memory. Hasina's ouster was not a polite transition of power; it was a rupture. To think that a few weeks of campaigning can heal the fractures of a society torn between secularism and dogmatism, between development and kleptocracy, is a fantasy so rich it should be taxed. The West, of course, watches with its usual mix of patronizing approval and anxious neglect, eager to praise the "return of democracy" while ignoring that democracy in this region is often just feudalism with better marketing.

As the candidates parade themselves before the public, one cannot help but view the spectacle through a lens of profound exhaustion. We are watching a country attempt to reboot its operating system while the hardware is still smoldering. The opposition parties, previously stifled or jailed, are now blinking in the sunlight, trying to remember how to walk without a limp. Are they the saviors the students marched for? Or are they simply the ghosts of the past, dressed in the borrowed clothes of the present, waiting to resume the cycle of retribution and patronage that defines South Asian politics?

The tragedy is not that the election is happening—elections are a necessary hygiene, like brushing one's teeth, however futile it feels when the teeth are rotting—but that the hope invested in it is so disproportionate to the likely return. The people of Bangladesh, having ousted one ruler, are now being asked to choose another, under the pretense that the choice belongs to them. But in the grand, cynical casino of global politics, the house always wins. The faces on the posters change, the slogans are updated, but the underlying architecture of power—the bureaucracy, the military, the elites—remains impervious to the ballot box.

So, let the campaigning begin. Let the posters flutter in the breeze and the microphones screech with feedback. It is a grand performance, a necessary illusion to keep the chaos at bay for a few more years. But let us not pretend this is a new dawn. It is merely the afternoon sun, casting long, familiar shadows over a land that deserves better than the binary choice between authoritarianism and anarchy.