Dhaka City!

The Story of an Inhumane City Called Dhaka

I usually try to avoid government offices, the police, and the streets of Dhaka. I’m just a harmless, ordinary, lower-middle-class person. But whenever I do go out, I witness the unbearable suffering of the people in this city. From 6 PM to 11 PM, the hardship people endure is unimaginable. If it rains even a little, that suffering multiplies tenfold. When I see exhausted women returning from work, it feels like they’ve descended into hell. Those who are used to riding in air-conditioned cars will never understand this pain. People wake up at 6 AM, go to the market, get ready, and leave for work with two hours in hand. By the time they return home, it’s 11 PM. Just a few hours of sleep and the pull of family – that’s all the time they get for themselves.

This evening, four of us went out toward Lab Aid in Dhanmondi with a critically ill patient. The east side of Mirpur Road was completely paralyzed. Everything was jammed, as if thousands of vehicles were frozen in time. What should have been a 15-minute journey took an hour and a half just to reach the west side of the over bridge. In this city, no one thinks about heart patients, pregnant women, the disabled, or those in wheelchairs. Neither the roads nor the buildings are designed for them. Everything is built for looting and profit. As long as the pockets of ordinary people are being picked, everyone is happy. No one considers whether someone can cross the over bridge with or without help. There are no zebra crossings nearby. Even if there are, they’re not painted. And even if they are painted, no vehicle stops there. What a barbaric, inhumane city Dhaka is! Where else in the world are pedestrian over bridges such a source of suffering? In which country? In which city?

On the way back, I saw a thousand people competing – who could grab a bus, CNG auto-rickshaw, or rickshaw first. The circular AC bus in Dhanmondi was packed to the brim. We had a critically ill patient with us, and she was a woman. There was no way to return. We tried everything – bus, auto-rickshaw, rickshaw, Uber, Pathao – but failed. So many people. These exhausted workers have to fight this battle every single day. And some idiots were blowing cigarette smoke right into the faces of these sweaty, tired people. We had to sit the sick woman down at one spot.

From the opposite direction came a gentleman, around 55-60 years old, who asked, “Son, I’m going to Jatrabari. Am I on the right road?” His words made my head spin. He was walking from Dhanmondi to Jatrabari. I said, “Uncle, Jatrabari is very far. You should take a bus or a rickshaw or CNG.” His weary face replied, “I’ve walked here from Mohammadpur… my final destination is Demra Karim Jute Mill.” It felt like the sky collapsed on my head. A man of his age walking from Mohammadpur to Demra. I gathered the courage to ask, “Why are you walking? Why not take a bus?” He hesitated… I could tell he was embarrassed to answer.

So I asked directly, “Are you having financial trouble? You can tell me.” That broke the dam. Tears rolled down his cheeks. In a soft voice, he said, “I used to work. I’m trying to collect some pension money, but it’s ruining my life. I went to an officer in Mohammadpur hoping he’d help. He gave me hope – let’s see what happens.” I didn’t even realize when tears started rolling down my own cheeks. I checked my wallet – had 110 taka. I kept 50 for myself and gave him 60, saying, “From Science Lab intersection, you’ll find buses to Sayedabad and Jatrabari. Please take one.” If someone has to shed tears and walk from Mohammadpur to Demra just to collect their pension – especially at this age – what kind of system is this?

I needed money myself, so I went to an ATM nearby. Then I returned to where we had seated the patient. Given the state of the roads, I had no idea how long it would take for someone to agree to take us. And even if they did, the fare would likely be several times the normal rate – spending my hard-earned money on such unfair charges feels like a thorn in my side.

After an hour and a half of trying, we finally made it back in fragments. If you haven’t experienced this kind of suffering on the streets of Dhaka, you’re probably dreaming. These incidents are daily realities for many.

This city is extremely inhumane for people like us – lower-middle-class, poor, women, and children. For those with physical or mental disabilities, it’s practically a curse. For those of us who don’t have our own cars or drivers, navigating this city is painfully difficult. A small miscalculation or someone else’s mistake can cost you your life. But the struggle for survival never stops.

In this city, people abandon their own parents, siblings, and relatives in a heartbeat for the sake of wealth. Many wouldn’t hesitate to rob a dying person of everything they have. Some might even kill a loved one for drug money. Many build mountains of wealth by looting public funds. The dominant current here is: who can climb higher by snatching from whom.

Yet sometimes, even someone unrelated by blood becomes something greater. Today, we had a younger brother with us. Despite being sick himself, he stood tall in this inhumane city, holding a torch of hope. Perhaps it’s in the light of people like him that one day all darkness will fade. The journey toward humanity will begin.