By A.H. Jaffor Ullah
By A.H. Jaffor Ullah
June 3, 2001
The second day of my stay in Dhaka was uneventful in the sense that I didn’t meet anyone who is really important. The jet lag of past 48 hours had all but worn us down. But my indomitable spirit had kept me going. Nonetheless, most of my family members were up in the wee hours of the night. The constant humming of the air-conditioner didn’t help us sleep, but it gave us the creature comfort we needed.
The listlessness of night was broken by the on-again-off-again monsoon shower. The splattering of rain on the window pane also reminded me that the life-giving Barsha is finally here in Bangladesh. The city folks of Bangladesh may think that monsoon is more of a nuisance because it interferes with the "normal" rhythm of city life. But how strange is it that many of them fail to understand the importance of this seminal event that nourishes the soil without which agriculture would be in a sad shape all over the country. Mother Nature will do whatever she thinks is right for her children – the nature – irrespective of what the city slickers think of the "ugly" thing brought on by the monsoon deluge. As I have alluded earlier, monsoon is life giving. Parenthetically, I would like add here that expatriate Bangalees should come and visit Mother Bengal not in the winter months to get away from the hot and humid seasons lasting over six months, but they should most certainly come in Bhora Borshai (full monsoon time) as I am doing now. The hidden beauty of monsoon can never be described in words. It needs to be experienced. And that is all!
The tall order of the day was to
get back to the International Airport in search of our all lost luggage.
Last night, our congenial host gave us some clothes to wear. That
was dandy. But we needed our belongings, which was probably sitting
in some warehouse in Paris airport. Out of sheer desperation, we
decided to go back to the airport in search of our lost luggage.
The airport authorities get high marks for helping us. It was easy
to get passes from the authorities. In about 15-20 minutes time,
we were able to locate all the pieces of our lost luggage. After
a quick custom check, we were able to get back home. While coming
back, we experienced the drudgery of everyday commuting in Dhaka.
The traffic situation is really becoming bad. It is worsening by
the days. Something ought to be done to assuage the pain associated
with long distance commuting. Because of the intense competition
for space on the road, the drivers of motorized vehicle do amazing stunt
on the road. Who needs a daredevil when we have thousands of bus
and truck drivers vying for driving space in the all to familiar congested
road? The main thoroughfares of Dhaka city bar the ubiquitous rickshas
to ply on the road. Nonetheless, in the narrow lanes and by-lanes
of Dhaka the rickshas are still the king. They dominate the city
landscape in the back roads of Dhaka.
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Around the noon time right after the deluge, from the balcony of the 2nd floor I saw a nice-looking ricksha bringing a person to the house opposite to my host’s. The reclusive rickshawallah was resting waiting for his Shawari (customer) to get back. I went down with my digital camera to meet the resting rickshawallah. He was very puzzled to see me with my camera. I explained to him what I was about to do. He told me his name, which is Zohurul Islam. The ricksha was licensed under the township of Baridhara. That is what Zohurul Islam told me. He was in his mid thirties, but he looked older than that. The rickshawallahs of Bangladesh toil much too much to carry passengers in their non-motorized vehicle. There is a fat chance that you won’t find a fat rickshawallah plying the streets of Dhaka or anywhere else in Bangladesh. One thing is for sure. It’s a hard job to paddle rickshas. On the top of that their diet is devoid of protein. Therefore, the manual job devours the human body by breaking their body protein. No wonder, the rickshawallahs of Bangladesh don’t last long. You would be hard pressed to find an elderly rickshawallah plying the streets in Dhaka for too long. The rickshawallahs of Bangladesh are a neglected bunch. Hardly any NGOs are there devoted solely for theirs welfare. Isn’t that a shame! In Bangladesh, we have myriad NGOs to do humanitarian job. Many of them are solely working to alleviate poverty from rural societies. Many also work for women’s right. But one wonders how many of them are working to make rickshawallahs life a bit better than it is. Who is going to tell them that they need to replenish their body protein?
Today, I took some images of one
lone rickshawallah. Zohurul Islam, the rickshawallah was generous
enough to give me permission to take photographs of his pride possession—a
pretty ricksha. It was decorated very elegantly. The images
don’t lie about it. Anyone can see that Islam’s ricksha is a piece
of art. The colors are bold. Every time I saw a well-decorated ricksha,
I couldn’t help but remember the seminal work of Ms. Joanna Kirkpatrick.
She is an American anthropologist who spent a great deal of time all over
Bangladesh in the 1980s studying the ricksha art of Bangladesh. She
should be glad knowing that Dhaka’s rickshas are still decorated with a
lot of finesse.
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In the afternoon, when I realized
that the monsoon cloud is playing a hide-and-seek game with us, I decided
to visit a local daily bazaar. As usual, the marketplace was busy
as ever showing a panoply of summer fruits such as mangoes, litchi nuts,
black berries (Kalo Jam), Kathal (Jack fruit) and a whole slue of other
indigenous fruits (Chalta, Amra, etc.). After a brief tour of the
market, I rode a ricksha to get back to our host’s place. Our rickshawallah,
Abdus Salam, is originally from Gaibandha. He had been plying the
streets of northern affluent suburb of Dhaka for some time. Before
that, he was in Rajshahi town doing the same old thing, i.e., paddling
ricksha. He was not in good health. A scrawny looking fellow
in his thirties. I suggested to him to abandon this profession of
his and to go into something else. He replied, "Sir, I will paddle
ricksha for two more years." He did not tell me what he is going
to do after he retires from his present grueling job. The bigger
question in my mind was whether this rickety and malnourished man is going
to last two more years to enjoy his golden days of his life in a secluded
village in Gaibandha. Let us hope so.
Let me close this chapter by borrowing
a line from Bertolt Brecht, the famous German poet and playwright of the
twentieth century who wrote in his book ‘In the Jungle of Cities’: "It
isn't important to come out on top. What matters is to be the one who comes
out alive." With the exception of a few "lucky" ones we all are trying
to come out alive. Our rickshawallah friend Abdus Salam is exactly
doing that in the concrete jungles of Dhaka city.
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A.H. Jaffor Ullah writes from Gulshan,
Dhaka. Comments should be directed to: Jaffor@netscape.net
The top photo is a symbolic icon
of Dhaka. Life without ricksha is simply unimaginable!
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