“Oh, damn,” I muttered, as the mud seeped into my favorite pair of sandals. I had hitched up my pants, but my footwear bore no mercy from the dirty, bacteria-infested water that soaks the alleys where the slums of Dhaka are located. Since it rains at least once every week, no matter what season, and there is no proper drainage system in these bosti areas (i.e. slum areas), the water perpetually remains.
This was the bosti behind our house and I was here to do a geography assignment. I had to interview some of the people living here and already, barely inside the bosti, things were proving difficult indeed. There was a large cluster of houses, or rather, tumbling shacks, placed haphazardly all over the tiny area this slum covered. They were made of cheap tin, by the looks of it, with corrugated iron roofs full of small holes. I shuddered at the thought of how these people survive the heavy rains of Bangladesh in these ruins.
I entered the first house I came upon, wanting to quickly collect my information and leave the depressing, dirty environment of the bosti. Luckily, I struck gold and found a girl about my age, sitting on a straw mat on the floor, tending to an older, sickly-looking woman. Her first reaction was that of shock but then a shadow passed over her face and she glared at me. I backed away slightly at the hostility.
“Ki chan apni? Basha bhara to diye dichi,” she barked at me. She was asking me what I was doing there and added that she had already paid the house rent. Despite my nervousness, and slight fear of the girl, I couldn’t help but wonder how this, literally, piece of crap that they were living in could cost anything. I timidly told her that I was not there to collect the rent. At that, her expression softened considerably and I courageously ventured forth and explained that I wanted to know more about her life. At that she laughed sardonically, saying, “What are you going to do once you find out? You rich people never do anything to help us anyway!”
I knew that she was not accusing me as an individual, but rather, the selfish upper class society of the country; yet, I felt myself reddening in guilt. I realized that I had not really ever done anything for these people. In fact, I hadn’t even given them much thought!
Coming out of my stupor, I cleared my throat, took out my notebook and I asked her to tell me about herself and her experiences of living in a bosti. She started off quietly, probably so as not to disturb the sleeping woman.
***
My name is Moina and I am around 16 years old. I was born here in Dhaka, in another slum. Things were fine while I was a kid. My dad did odd jobs, which brought quite a regular income to the household, considering how much work this city needs. And my brother, who was two years older than me, worked in a garment’s factory. The work was tough, he left early and came home late and received only one meal; and although the pay was minimal, at least it was guaranteed – something very few of the slum dwellers can even dream of.
My mother worked as a maid at two houses nearby and was home only for lunch and for the night. Her work was often back-breaking and in spite of all the effort she put into it, her employers continually abused her. And me, I would just stay at home playing with the other kids in the bosti, waiting for my parents and brother to return.
Those, apa [sister], were the good old days.
She sighed and stopped talking, looking out into the distance, her eyes glazed, reminiscing. My curiosity was piqued and I asked softly, “Then what happened, Moina?”
She came to and continued.
Then, one day about two or three years ago, my brother fell sick with high fever. My parents thought it would recede with some rest. But they were wrong. One week. Two weeks. Three weeks. The factory sent someone to say he was sacked for not reporting to work. Then, a month went by. By then, my brother could hardly talk and he vomited out whatever we fed him.
I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out, “But why didn’t you guys take him to a doctor?!” She laughed mournfully.
Apa, we didn’t have all that money. But we still tried. My mother spoke to the people of the house she worked in and they told her to go to a certain doctor, who didn’t ask for too much money. We rushed my brother to the place. The doctor acted very strange and in a matter of 5 minutes, he said he knew what was wrong with my brother and wrote him a long prescription. It cost us 500 Taka to buy the medicine. We had to borrow from a neighbor.
My brother died the next week.
I gasped. She sniffed. After a moment of silence, she continued.
We figured the doctor had probably duped us. There was nothing we could do about it …
Then, the world came crashing down on us. My father, who would always stay away from the other men in the bosti, now joined their group. He started drinking, coming home in the middle of the night with other men and beating up my mother and me. He quit his job as well and used to take all the money that mother earned to buy alcohol, drugs and women. And then one day, he didn’t come home. We don't know what happened. Maybe he died. To be honest, I don’t care. … Good riddance.
I was utterly astounded. Moina stopped talking for a long while. I stared at her. A girl just my age. I could’ve been in her shoes! And this was the story of just one girl, out of how many – hundreds, thousands … millions?
My mother worked for a year or so, but she grew weaker. She only worked to pay back our debts. And when the last poisha [coin] was repaid, she quit her job and fell to the floor. This was almost 6 months ago. Since then, she hasn’t risen.
“So how do you manage?”
At that, she got slightly flustered and hesitated before replying.
I do what most people in my place would have done. I use my body. Look, apa, I know what you are thinking. But I need the money. Who will pay the rent? Who will buy the food? Who will pay for mother’s medicines?
But things are so hard. Sometimes I wonder why I was born. I have no aim in life, apa. I just live each day with no thoughts for tomorrow, for what else can I do?
***
I came out of Moina’s broken home and checked my watch. It had only been about 45 minutes since I entered. But during this time, I had changed into a totally different person and I looked at the world around me with newly-created eyes.
Moina had finished her story by telling me that she has AIDS and would have committed suicide, had she not had to think about her mother as well. She told me how hard life in this bosti was without a male member in the family. Drunkards often came into their insecure refuge and sexually abused her. There was only one toilet for fifteen houses and, for a woman to go out of the house to go to the toilet after dark was like asking to be raped. During the day as well, the toilet was usually unusable, as there was no water. But, worse of all, she was all alone in the world. There was nobody to hold her and help her live through the hell fire that she was engulfed in.
Standing outside her hut, I looked up to the sky and took a deep breath of the dirty, putrid air to calm my traumatized insides. Then, I hitched up my pants again and walked back to where my driver was waiting for me.
All the way home, I shed a thousand tears for Moina, and all the others like her, praying earnestly for them, so that they could at least find one good reason to be alive.
***
« return.