Soon after grabbing a hearty iftar (the meal eaten by Muslims to break fast in the month of Ramadan at sunset) meal, my friends and I drift through the empty streets of Dhanmondi and wind up at Rabindra Sarobar. The air is undisturbed from the razzmatazz of the vehicles’ mechanical cries, suffused with the smell of smoke and kerosene among other things. The quietness looming over the streets is perhaps the best fruit a post-Iftar Dhaka atmosphere has to offer. Like the other blessings given by this city, this fruit too, is meant to be enjoyed by a selective few. My friends and I have roofs over our heads, fabric over our skins and food in our stomachs. Perhaps that’s why we get to enjoy the quietness.
However, for those around us, the street people, the homeless, the vulnerable, the quietness means nothing. For them, the soothing emptiness of the roads is the same as the chaotic fullness. After all, they have to fill their stomachs, quench their thirst, beg and beg. When is the time to take in all the calm?
The calcium-white light spills from tall poles and lights up the heart of Rabindra Sarobar, welcoming friends and lovers to unwind in the area, sitting on the grass, the staircases, the ledges, around the dark lake on which the clouds drift like smoke and city lights glisten.
A barefoot kid, younger than my seven-year-old sibling, tugs at my shirt.
“Bhaiya, ektu paani den,” (brother, please give me water) he says, perspiring heavily.
Another day, my best-friend and I are sitting on the staircases of AR Plaza, right before iftar, when the sky is pink and the road is on the verge of growing empty. No busy civilians on the streets, no shouting, no commotion, only the homeless. The bats and crows are taking flight towards home
Luckily, we have an ice-cold bottle of Finle with us. I help him drink. A portion fails to reach his mouth, ramming into the ground. We pass the whole bottle to him. He happily scurries away with the 1litre bottle clasped in the mercy of his tender fingers. Fingers that know the dirt of the city roads, not the softness of comfort every kid deserves.
We sit on a ledge and talk about random things, my mind still lingering over the sadness that lurks around us. I express my frustration to my friends.
What did they do to deserve such a life? A life without fundamental rights. A life without proper childhood.
One of my friends says, “That’s what makes life interesting. You’ll notice things around you that will break you apart. And the coexistence is what makes life so.”
I tie his words around my heart. Although I am bled dry by the subjects of sadness scattered around us like undisciplined constellations, I dive into the shelter of my friend’s statement.
Another day, my best-friend and I are sitting on the staircases of AR Plaza, right before iftar, when the sky is pink and the road is on the verge of growing empty, no busy civilians on the streets, no shouting, no commotion, only the homeless. The bats and crows are taking flight towards home. The sky is theirs, the air too. They shoot across the city as if it’s their moment to crowd the sky.
Right in front of us, a mother is stationed beside an electric pole on a ragged mat with two of her kids, who are dressed scantily. The youngest of them, a five-year-old boy is bawling hard while fighting with his elder sister over a broken Nokia. The mother doesn’t mediate; her eyes are fixated on the fast cars dashing towards home like the crows and bats are. It’s an indigestible scene.
They don’t have access to the joys of life that most have. Heartbreaking.
Every time I walk to school or to run errands, such scenes are bound to welcome me. It’s the same for everyone living in this city.
The three-year-old naked child crying on the lap of his glassy eyed mother will make you donate some money. Another shrieking child with a tikka on his moon forehead at the footpath’s corner will remind you of your child or sibling. You’ll donate. But that’s a temporary means of relief. Within our vision, there is no way to bring about a complete change soon. A change which means no child will have to crawl on the dusty streets instead of playroom carpets. A change which means no child will have to play with discarded plastic bottles instead of toys. No child will have to sweat under the scorching sun instead of the comfort of a home. No child will have to walk barefoot, spend their days naked, exposed to the toxic elements of the city, instead of being protected, cocooned in fluffy fabric.
Despite there being no reasonable way, we can only be unreasonable and hope. Be unreasonable, hope, and derive happiness. As Arundhati Roy says, “So being unreasonable is the only way we can have hope.”
It’s a busy afternoon, the din of returning home is chaotic, the intersection at Shahbagh is packed with grumbling mechanical beasts. I notice a woman with a baby strapped to her body. She approaches every car she can; her child sucking his thumb, his round head melting from the fiery sun’s rays. Is he three? Four? I don’t know.
I blast Joan Baez’s rendition of “Imagine”, the air inside the car cool against my skin, the glass protecting me from all the dust, all the noise. I bask in comfort, my heart heavy with sadness, and the world around me plagued. I grow an urge to undo history and do things differently so that there would be no sufferings. I recall my friend’s words. Arundhati Roy’s words. The traffic snaps and the vehicles pick up speed as Joan Baez sings, “No need for greed or hunger”. I wish the song to come true. But we can only hope.
The writer is a journalist based in Dhaka and is an avid follower of South Asian Literature. He can be reached at [email protected]