Dhaka, No Space Left Unfilled

The baby sits patiently in his triangular alcove above a Dhaka alley. A drop of three feet to stone slabs covering a gutter is only inches from his toes. But he doesn’t try to crawl about, shows no signs that he ever does or would. Where is his mother? Two men fill an adjacent doorway. Stacks of wares divide them from the child. Nothing separates the baby or the men from rickshaw wheels, the extruding side mirrors of cars, or people’s elbows as the crowds and traffic struggle in jammed-up fits and starts past the shop.

What does he think about, this little mote of a person?

Certainly, not that he is one of 140 million people, that he will grow up to be either unemployed (40% of the population) or underemployed (over 50% live below the poverty level). But, like the other 140 million people, he knows he is crammed into a very small space. Bangladesh, my Lonely Planet guidebook says, is the 8th most populated country in the world, and one of the smallest. The baby’s share of the country is two square feet.

A boy of about ten films us with a tiny Japanese video camera, intently watching the viewing screen to keep us in focus. He is particular interested in my new Swiss friend, Manuela, with her long blonde hair and milk white complexion. We walk about an old mosque in our bare feet, and he and his friends follow, the camera carefully balanced to keep us in the frame. Beyond a grilled fence, idlers gather to create a larger audience. When we leave, so do they.

For a time, we are a parade. Then, the press of people in the crowded streets and the weaving, spinning tires of the cycle rickshaws break up the fun and, for another time, we are unaccompanied, but not alone. No one is ever alone in Bangladesh. Not even close.

Even on the airy heights of new skyscrapers, the observable population density is frightening. I look up to see a row of men making a frieze against the sky, planting rebar stakes on what might someday be a new twelfth floor. The rebar appears to be part of the process of constructing new poured concrete pillars that will hold up … inshallah … a thirteenth floor.

We pass a wall plastered with pages from one of today’s newspapers. It’s barely visible. Men stand shoulder to shoulder, crouch in front, and peer between other heads to read. Staying abreast of politics is serious business. It’s the best game in town, a deadly one, with bombs and hartals being the current weapons of choice. Bomb blasts happen with some regularity, the target this week being allegedly corrupt lawyers. Hartals, or general strikes, as a rule are less violent and let everyone join the fun.

“You just missed one last week,” our guide says, his tone sad for my loss of a local experience.

“Ah, shucks,” I answer.

He missed the sarcasm … which is just as well.

Just down the narrow street from the news wall is a newspaper kiosk, a metal box on legs tucked into a niche. It’s about 18 inches wide and, possibly, as much as three feet long. The proprietor is folded inside, his papers crammed into slots all around him. The open front of his box can be closed with a lid, too. It is propped up by a bamboo pole just now. At night, I guess, he removes the prop and the lid drops into place. Does he sleep inside? It’s possible, probable even.

Passages are sized down in the old parts of Dacca. We go along to watch how mother-of-pearl is extracted from shells, having to edge our big European and American bodies down a hallway by both crouching and turning sideways. For us, it’s claustrophobic. But the owner of the factory trots ahead. The space (or lack thereof) fits him perfectly.

The dream of open spaces is reserved for a few and for monuments to past glories. The Moghuls built big and built here, stamping their distinctive architecture onto the country. Broad boulevards that the French might envy elbow through the city, forcing the mass of the population back into ever reduced space. Military and government reservations fill huge tracks and include great parks protected by spiked fences. People can, theoretically, look in at the widely planted palms, the expanses of grass, the lakes, and the impressive buildings.

But they don’t seem to do that. The wide sidewalks in these districts are empty. The broad boulevards carry little traffic … some don’t really go anywhere.

Far from being resented, though, these open spaces are a source of pride to the Dhakans. “What did you think? Did you see the Parliament Building? The tomb of Zia? The Moghul Fort?” a man asks, his face telling me what answer he expects.

“Incredibly interesting,” I say. I am thinking of the baby crammed into his niche, the newsman in his box, the mother-of-pearl extractor and his grim hallway, the 50-plus million of unemployed. I add, “Perfectly amazing.”

The man beams, his national pride vindicated.