Bangladesh: So much is wrong with it...

I met Arif during my short visit to Bangladesh recently. Arif is 9.

That’s all I knew of him such was the nature of our meeting. For my first visit to Bangladesh for quite some time and I expected to see some change, change in the landscape and in the people. I certainly found plenty to mull over on my return.Bangladesh, my place of birth and the only place I knew for the first 10 years of my life. It’s a beautiful country. So much is wrong with it and yet there is so much to treasure. It’s a country of many contradictions. Whether amongst people, places, outlook and attitude, nowhere else on earth is there such a sharp divide and nowhere else are the extremes in such stark contrast.

As I look out of my penthouse suite in the 5 star hotel on the outskirts of Dhaka, I look out onto one of the main highways that link the old city with the new. Across the road, a huge waste tip has built up, most likely, unplanned but now occupied. Around it are makeshift homes and a bazaar. The bazaar is a bizarre mix of hawkers and semi-permanent stalls, all plying their trade round the clock. Above it is a faded sign that reads, ‘Welcome to your dream’, the last remaining evidence of what was to be a housing estate that never quite happened.

In the coolness of my air-conditioned room, I looked out onto this melee. Its one o’clock in the afternoon and the sun at its fiercest. Add to it the dust and fumes, the bizarre bazaar looked like the jaws of hell. I was warned not to venture out and especially not in this heat but I couldn’t resist. I caught sight of a little boy, baking in the sun, sat with his legs crossed just in the edge of the train track and behind a vegetable seller. It didn’t seem like he had anything to sell. I couldn’t see enough. I was curious and it drove me out of the hotel.The heat was unbearable and you feel it instantly. The dirt filled air is as thick as it is harsh. My face and exposed arms took the brunt of it the moment I stepped outside the hotel. I negotiated my way round the cars and rickshaws and on to the over bridge towards my destination. I looked back at the hotel in all its splendour, sparkling neon lights that flickered even at daylight.

Down in the markets its all go. My attention was momentarily disrupted by the sound on an on coming freight train. Suddenly mayhem! All the hawkers and hoards of people just walked aimlessly. I looked around and saw the gates on the railway crossing slowly stagger down. The train passed as vendors looked on, peering between the slow moving carriages to make sure their goods were still there. As soon as the last carriage passed and the gates drew upwards, the crowds spilled on the tracks. You would never know a train had passed here less than 30 seconds earlier. The hustle and bustle of the busy market was a claustrophobics nightmare. The dust blinded you, the noise deafened you and the forceful nature of some of the people frightened you. No one it seemed cared, no one was bothered, except me. Mindful of drawing attention to myself, I walked, through the middle of the two rows of sellers, pausing every so often and attracting the odd comment. I soon found out they were not directed at me or to anyone in particular. People just said things. Things that were relevant to the goods they sold. One guy selling socks just muttered the words (in Bengali) ‘socks’, great socks! Warm socks! Where else would you find a socks seller in 40 degrees of heat? Welcome to Bangladesh!

As I dodged my way through the human traffic, I was mindful of barging into people stepping sideways like a polite Sunday driver. I soon found that my progress through the market would take considerably longer if I don’t pick up the local custom. If you get barged, just carry on, you don’t stop to look. If you want a particular stall or seller, you look in that direction and head for it. That is how you make headway here. So I did.I stood in front of Arif. I was his age when I left Bangladesh. A timid little boy, fair he may have been once upon a time but the sun has seen to that. His tiny frame, veins and bones sharp and visible. Hands on his head he sat, as if to fend off the sun, looking attentively at his goods, day dreaming. My feet were inches from his flattened cardboard he has spread out in front of him. From where he was sat, he saw nothing but my shoes. He didn’t have the courage to look up for fear the sun might blind him. He didn’t feel obstructed by my presence, just assumed I stood there in order to get a view of something else. After all, what would I want from his ‘stall’?Arif had neatly laid out his goods all carefully lined, parallel and perfect. I scanned it quickly. Three hair brushes, 6 combs, several hair clips, bands, novelty combs and a toothbrush. His grey shirt was once white. You can tell by the fold marks in the sleeves. His trousers had seen many better days but even at knee length, they are far from finished serving him. My feet moved sideways and back to allow others to pass by and then I knelt down and drew Arif’s attention.‘Sir would you like a comb?’ he asked, half-heartedly, only momentarily looking at me before reorganising his brushes.

He muttered a little more under his breath. With one hand covering his forehead, he looked up again. ‘Sir would you like a comb? I looked at his face, tiny and scorched. His eyes were big and the whites sparkled against his dark face. He has mousy hair and dry chapped lips. He screwed his face to fend off the sun and to look at me properly and when he did, he sat straight, attentive and inquisitive. My presence was both confusing and fascinating him in equal measure. He looked at my shoes and my jeans and then my face, trying not to be too blatant. He had sincerity in his face. He seemed likable. So I said ‘how much for the comb?’ he couldn’t move quickly enough. ‘Sir this one is 5 Taka and this one 10 Taka’, he said pointing at each. He sensed that a sale was imminent. I picked it up, to take a closer look. He stared at me, wondering what I could possibly be examining in something so simple. Still he was patient.

‘What is it like to comb your hair with? I said.

A rye smile emerged from the corner of his lips as if to say what do you mean!‘Try it’, he said with eagerness. I declined the offer. ‘Its ok’, he insisted, ‘your hair doesn’t have dirt like mine’. I put the comb back and paused to pick up a brush. His smile disappeared as he suspected my interest in his comb could be over. It returned again as I picked up a brush. Only this time it wasn’t a smile, more of a mischievous grin. ‘That’s for ladies’, he warned me. I looked at him and we both laughed. ‘I knew that’, I said. He didn’t want to question me, partly for fear and partly because he would potentially count himself out of a sale.He seemed at ease with me, so I asked his name. ‘Arif’, he said. ‘How old are you Arif? ‘I think about 9’ he said. His head swayed side to side as if to confirm it. As I was about to quiz him further, an elderly man lost his balance from stepping on what looked like a piece of rock, sending a kickful of dust in our direction. You are never quite sure what you are stepping on in a place like that; it could be glass, rock, razor anything. I immediately stood up and Arif grabbed his cardboard and goods. The old man composed himself and wondered off aimlessly, attracting the odd glimpse from passers by.As the dust settled, Arif laid his card back before him and proceeded to clean up some of the dust off his precious items. He had a resigned look in his face as if fate had dealt yet another blow to tarnish his meagre possessions. Now he has a whole lot of dirty combs and brushes and his hair bands have attracted much of the dust. Emptiness surrounded his face as he looked aimlessly round him for something to wipe them with. He took them one by one and tried his sleeve. It wasn’t long enough and did little to remove the dust. I watched him as he attentively went about his cleaning. I was beginning to make him nervous, probably even irritating him. He looked up at me in despair and then his smile broke out again in seeing my handkerchief. He couldn’t believe it. It was so clean and white. He wouldn’t dare. He didn’t even look in my direction as I offered him the handkerchief, just nodded his head and declined. He blew into the combs and blew harder still but little changed. I moved the agony on a little by bending down again and picking up his hair bands. ‘How much?‘Three Taka’, he said with a slight irritation in his voice. He paid little or no attention to me this time. He had suspected me to be nothing more than a passing inquisitor who had no intention of buying anything.

‘How much for all your items?He looked up blankly and his expression condemned me to madness with one glance.‘What? He asked.‘How much for everything?Perplexed, he looked at me like people do when they have nothing to lose and everything to gain. He composed himself, took a long look at his goods, a deep breath and did some arithmetic’s in his head.‘Fifty Taka’, he murmured under his breath.‘Fifty Taka? I’ll take them all’.Things were begging to sound very confusing for him in the early afternoon sun.

‘So let me get things clear here. You want to buy everything in my stall? He twitched his eyes and rubbed his nose.‘Yes, everything. I will pay you 50 Taka for everything if that is OK with you?If ever you saw a little boy smile. So much excitement yet he forced himself to contain it all within him. He looked like he couldn’t wait to tell someone the story about the time a ‘madman’ came to his stall and bought everything. I knew what he was thinking. His face told the story of his dreams.Arif carefully gathered the goods and then neatly folded the sides of his cardboard to create a box.‘It will be easy to carry’, he said. I agreed.He held the box towards me and I met him halfway. As it rested under my arm, I took out a crisp 50 taka note. He took it gladly and folded it neatly several times before placing it in his pocket.‘Well I have nothing else to sell and if you stand here too long you will go black like me’, he joked.

The conversation needed to continue. ‘I have some stock you might be interested in’, I said. He looked at me, confused and probably wondering the ‘madman’ is at it again.‘I have some stock which I am looking to give away. I can’t carry it back to my hotel because it’s too heavy’. To clarify, I pointed at his cardboard box. He knew I wasn’t telling the truth and he suspected there was more to my proposal. He was beginning to get a measure of my madness. I was beginning to seriously worry him now and he looked left and right and possibly for a moment thought about doing a runner but his curiosity held him back. I handed him the box and told him that I would like him to have it.

‘I cant, it’s not mine anymore and I don’t really want to buy it back from you because I really need the money’, he said in a pleading manner.‘It’s ok, I don’t want any money’, I said.Arif looked at me as if to say that he didn’t want my handout and then he did. ‘Sir, I am not interested in taking your goods. I want to earn my living’. I felt slightly embarrassed and rather taken back by the response.Here was a 9 year old boy, probably born in abject poverty and a breadwinner for more than himself, yet he was determined to earn his keep. Arif’s response both shocked and worried me in equal measure. It would not have been out of place for him to just take the goods and move on. People his age are aplenty in Bangladesh and all living on the edge of life and death. For many, the break of dawn signals the beginning of another uncertain day in which finding something to line their empty stomachs dominates these tiny minds. A night under the skies in the streets of Dhaka is a living reality for many kids like Arif and yet here he was refusing to take something I had offered him as gift. Right or wrong, I had imagined Arif’s life and how it may have panned out up till now. I imagined Arif would have a fair few siblings. Born to parents uncertain of their present let alone the future with a small patch of the Dhaka slums that they call home.As presumptuous as I am sounding, this scenario would not be far removed from the reality facing many thousands in Bangladesh yet Arif’s attitude pleasantly surprised me and worried me all the same. With that honest attitude, he would struggle to survive the tortures of street life. Surely fate would not treat such an innocent soul or deprive him of a days honest earnings, would it? Truth is it does and it will continue to do so to many thousands each day. I am a mere traveller who has taken a passing interest in the life of a street child.’Sir, sir, I will take the goods back from you for a Taka, that way you will have sold it to me fair and square’. Arif interrupted me from my thoughts and his proposal almost threw me. Where did you learn to do business like that!

As soon as he gave me the soiled 1 Taka note, Arif was off. He had disappeared into the crowed and I was too hot and bothered to look.I decided to walk back to the hotel and take stock of what had just happened.