|
Chapter 2 - Hartal
Sunday
dawns bright and sunny in Dhaka. After a quiet power cut
littered weekend which had interrupted many activities
save the most important, golf and drinking beer in the
club where a generator ensured the amber stays chilled,
a new week dawns with a general strike called by the
opposition to protest the price of onions. Or some such
lunacy. These strikes, or hartals as they are known
locally, have the biggest impact on the expats who work
in Motijheel, Dhaka’s very own business center.
Actually, the biggest impact is on the poor who see a
day with little or no income. But the expats on big
expat packages have it tough too! They may not be able
to get to their office because of barricaded roads or
fisticuffs in Farmgate but there are still reports to
write, expenses to justify. And of course they maybe
able to squeeze in a back 9 on the local Army Golf
Course.
The Dips
are again representing Her Maj’s Gov in their splendidly
isolated parallel universe where BS is the oxygen they
need to justify their existence and dealing with matters
of such importance as praising the President, Miss
Creant, for her support of democracy. This, one week
after the police attacked a peaceful opposition rally,
leaving seven people dead and the business area a no go
area for 4 hours. This action prompted the Second
Secretary to send an email to all registered nationals
advising them to avoid the area for the time being. The
email was prepared, initialed, approved by the Foreign
Office and was due to be circulated before the
Commission closed at 2.30pm. Unfortunately, the Second
Secretary, a large rough Essex girl named Rach who used
to provide security for heavy metal band Motorhead, had
nipped out early for a fag, and had the following day
off, so the email was not sent till 2 days after the
event, during which time the Country Manager of a multi
national bank saw his car set fire to and had to travel
home in a claustrophobic baby taxi.
Lions
wakes early, checks his email then returns to bed.
Nothing that urgent. Only requests for more reports that
people don’t read, business expansion plans, and when
will the report for the Saudi Ambassador be sent. All
irrelevant really, because with the strike, ain’t
nothing going to happen anyway today. Oh well, just mill
round the office, then hit the club for lunch, then stay
there till kicking out time. Scratching his nuts, he
curses life in the tropics, slipping beneath the sheets,
air conditioning whirring contentedly in the background.
He starts reading a book about Calcutta. He was over
there recently and enjoyed it. The city was in total
contrast to Dhaka, a bit of history, a lot easier to get
around, an interesting place to explore for a few days.
Lions is intrigued by many things about Asia but there
is one thing he keeps coming back to empty handed. Why
the Armenians? From Calcutta to Singapore with stops in
Rangoon and Penang there is ample evidence of these
people, often here before the British arrived. But…
The
Portuguese, the Cloggies, Catholics, English, many
Europeans had left there mark on Asia but they were well
documented. Arab and Chinese traders had been sailing
the seas in this area long before Columbus had learnt
the world was round, but there seemed to be little
written archives of the Armenians. Plenty of churches,
one had been founded in Penang in 1822. They’d built a
church in Agra in 1562, invited by Akhbar and he must
have been some guy; how many restaurants named after
him? A grave in the Armenian Churchyard in Calutta dates
from 1630. Not withstanding the Raffles in Singapore, E
& O in Penang and the Strand in Rangoon of Armenian
origins. There was a book in there somewhere, Lions
thought, but not by him, not this lifetime. Still, an
interesting activity for a brain sozzled by 18
consecutive nights of alcohol abuse, and it beats
thinking about preparing an imaginary sales report for
imaginary companies looking to invest heaps of imaginary
dollars into the country.
A timid
knock on the door drags him from out of Geoffrey
Moorhouse’s classic and back into the reality of the
here and now. The office peon wants to know whether he
should turn on the photocopier. Ahh, the stress of
management. Some staff are beginning to crawl into the
office, so he returns to his desk, 3 day growth, adidas
shorts and barefoot. Answers a few more inane questions
before logging on checking a few web sites that assure
him the world is crazy, not just here. His accountant
calls to say widespread fighting in his area means he
can’t leave the house, or come to work. As if to
emphasise the point, a large explosion near the office
cuts the power, extinguishing the life from the a/c and
computers. No need to turn on the photocopier now, I
guess.
A supplier
calls, asking about his payment.
“No
worries. Just come to the office, I’ll get down the
bank, and you’ll be sorted.”
Sure
enough, one hour later, Saiful arrives, loud brown
shirt, yellow tie, sits at a high backed chair and
waits. Nearly lunch so Lions tells him he’s just off to
the bank, and please wait. Stupid sod. The banks are
closed. Everyone is in on it, Saiful is being played for
a mug, everyone knows except the mark. Come 5 o’ clock,
Saiful is still waiting, while Lions gets into his 9th
can of Tiger. Not the brightest light on the Christmas
tree is our Saiful. He knows the country is at a
standstill, knows businesses are shut and boarded up for
the day. In fact, his brother’s small grocery shop got a
leaflet asking him to remain closed. Despite the polite
tone of the message, the inference was clear and the
thugs who delivered it would brook no argument. Why he
expects Lions to be any different, to conjure this money
out of the ether is anyone’s guess but he settles down
to wait.
The
strike, or hartal, is a feature of the political
landscape in Bangladesh, indeed the sub continent. The
word is of Gujarati origin and compounds har,
meaning everything, and tal, meaning close as in
the verb. Everything close which is pretty much the aim.
As part of his peaceful resistance movement to get the
British out of India, Gandhi used hartal as a form of
peaceful protest. As ever with good ideas, they are
hijacked by people with devious motives and moulded to
their benefit. So what was seen as a form of passive
resistance is now seen as a time when the mastans get
free reign and the politically sponsored goons and thugs
claim the streets.
But the
hartal is still accepted by the majority of the citizens
as a democratic right; rare indeed is any discussion
about proscribing the action that brings thousands onto
the streets and, to all intents and purposes, closes the
shutters on the economy for the day.
The hartal
starts with a meeting of the great and the good, usually
leading opposition politicians who are protesting about
the current government. A touchy lot, politicians, they
take umbrage at the slightest slight and, even when the
government does nothing, the opposition can call for the
shutters to come down and the banners to go up. One time
a hartal was called to protest the high incidence of
dengue fever ravaging the country. No doubt the
mosquitoes were government moles sent out to discredit
the honourable oppositions. Cynics said some of the
leading supporters fancied a long weekend in Singapore.
Very gravely they will announce that after much soul
searching, in the face of what they perceive as ruling
party apathy or aggression, they feel forced to call a
hartal. The message is passed down the ranks of the
party organization and on a grass roots level, local
activists will print up leaflets calling on all small
businesses in their area to close for the duration of
the stoppage, be it 6 hours or whatever. Likewise,
larger businesses are affected, public transport is much
reduced, rickshaws etc are advised not to ply their
trade. Businesses that do open run the risk of a
skeleton staff unable or unwilling to risk the streets
or an attack on property.
On a local
level, the economy dries up, people are scared to go
out, and businesses are scared to open. Any rickshaw
wallahs or baby taxi drivers that dare to earn a crust
run the risk of seeing their livelihoods go up in
flames. Most stay out of sight. Day labourers and street
vendors too keep a low profile, painfully aware of the
cost of breaking a hartal. Those that do work see their
income fall to between a third and a half of a regular
work day. And those bellies still need filling, Airports
are kept open, newspaper vehicles are allowed out, as
are ambulances, the police, the military. Some trains
run, as do some ferries, but the problem lies in
reaching the termini; it is a common sight to see
ambulance ferrying the rich and well off to the airport.
It is not clear what happens to anybody who needs to get
to hospital in an emergency. Schools and universities
close down. The latter can become a battlefield with
students divided into armed camps of government or
opposition supporters.
The 1920’s
and 1930’s were described as Dhaka University’s golden
era, the Oxford of the east attracting the best minds in
Bengal and competing with Calcutta. That seems a long
time ago now as the campus grounds are more like a
perpetual war zone as the country’s polarized politics
are carried out in the dormitories and classrooms the
youth groups of the political mainstream who take the
culture of Adda (animated, informal debate) to it’s
illogical extreme and maim and kill in place of study.
From 1980 to 1989/1990, the University was closed for
474 days. That is study time lost to students or time
which needed to be made up at some stage. In 1991/1992,
on top of the scheduled 90 days vacation, the institute
of learning was closed for a further 94 days! Hence the
growth of private universities!
Bangladesh
is a desperately poor land. It relies on cheap labour to
attract foreign direct investment, to people labour
intensive factories where textiles are manufactured for
export. All bets are off in hartal. Staff will face
problems getting to work, there will be difficulties
trucking raw materials and finished products to the
ports, there will be delays at the ports of both inbound
and outbound goods. And all the time, costs are rising,
to the investor and to the country.
And what a
cost to the country. In 1995, there were some 144
hartals announced in the first 9 months of that year of
varying lengths. It maybe 6 hours, it maybe anything up
to 96, it maybe continuous, it maybe only called during
daylight. It varies, the effects don’t. The estimated
financial cost was fixed at some 250 crore taka. That’s
a number with a lot of zeros that goes down the swannie.
Per day. Money the country can ill afford to lose. From
1991 to 1996 the opposition called 173 hartals. Then
they won the election and the former leaders found it
their turn. They called 382 hartals in the period
1996-2001.Then there is the damage done to the small
trader, be it the small shopkeeper with his cash tied up
in perishables, be it the rickshaw wallah. He with the
least to lose is, perversely, the one with the most to
lose. The little he does have is in all likelihood all
he has and this little trader, sitting near the bottom
of the food chain makes up the backbone of the local
economy. Kick away his crutches and his network is on
the streets.
But there
is a realization, even within the insular political
elite so bitterly divided, that the hartal is not an
effective political tool that the frequent calls for
stoppage hurt the very people they are elected to
represent. But while they mouth the platitudes each camp
is reluctant to be the first to change their ways for
fear of being perceived as weak. So to satisfy the
pampered egos the misery breeds of itself and spreads
cancer like throughout the whole country.
And among
the wider public a growing cynicism speaks out against
the waste. With hartals usually being called at the
start or the end of the week, to coincide with holidays
the delays in the ports and factories mount, port
charges, storage charges build up, businessmen look to
cut costs, out go the ten a penny labourers. The people
with the most to lose. Again.
Arriving
at the BAGHA, Yorkie is back in town, sitting in his
usual place at the bar. Here we go again. Heading for
wipeout, and it’s not yet midday.
“All
right mate, when did you get back?”
He only
arrived a couple of hours ago, and if he’s suffering jet
lag, he’s not showing it. A tidy collection of empties
is lined up in front of him as he pulls the ring off a
new one and gets Lions one. What can you do, old hand,
just got back, he’s been gagging for this for months,
can’t leave a mate at the bar on his own. Lions takes a
long swig, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
“Your lot
are having a good season,” mocks Lions. Yorkie is a
Leeds fan, one of long standing, going back to tank
tops, flared trousers and silk scarves tied round
wrists.
“Bring
back Batty,” he replies drawing on his cigarette.
“You need
someone like him. The other mercenaries are only waiting
for payday to come round. “
“Need to
get some Yorkshire grit in there. Batty may not be the
best player in the world but he will fight for Leeds.
Not like those other wannabees. Billy and Don must be
turning in their graves.”
“Agree
with ya mate, but you’re still gonna win fuck all this
year.”
“Shut up
and have a drink. What’s the story with this hartal?”
“No idea
mate. Guess old Bipplob fancied a long weekend
somewhere.”
Yorkie
talks about people he knew 3, 4 years ago. Bar veterans
in town on short projects, large expenses. Never once
mentions his job in Qatar, just talks about the BAGHA; a
strange insular world garnered around an L shaped bar of
teak and jutting out brass plaques. Somebody brought a
card of pork scratchings back from a trip to the UK and
long after the snacks had been munched the card was
still hanging proudly on the wall. More than one person
had asked for a bag but sadly no one had seen fit to
bring anymore over. A bomb could drop outside, filling
in the tennis court, destroying the outside bar and
flattening the 3 cats that squat by the pool. Nobody in
the Corner Bar would move. Run out of Tiger or
Carlsberg, and Kashmir would seem like a local dispute
between a couple of matey neighbours who really just
need a good hard shag. A couple of short-term visitors
pop their heads around the corner, clock Yorkie and
Lions, or the row of empties, and disappear. 3pm is not
the time for them to discuss the bridge in the north
east of Bangladesh while these couple of aging, greying
louts relive the terrace battles of the mid 70’s.
Lions’
mobile rings. Seeing it’s only Saiful, he answers,
shouting down the line “I can’t hear you, I can’t hear
you” before switching the thing off. Yorkie wants one
for his missus, and Lions would gladly give his away
were it not for the fact that occasionally a customer
might ring him. Yorkie is reminiscing about how they
would often get 60 people in the BAGHA on a Monday
night, normally a quiet night. He drawls on, babbling
away in the background a reassuring sound spouting shite
as Lions turns his mind back, yet again, to Thailand and
curses the day he volunteered to come to this
claustrophobic hell hole.
Ok, only 2
hours from Bangkok, or 7 via Singapore but still…Nothing
to do here apart from the BAGHA. Sod the BHC Club. He’d
been there a couple of times, they did all right food,
but there was nothing. Like a Wimbledon home game, the
only time there was ever a crack was when the BAGHA
turned up for darts night. Ha ha. Pop quiz hot shot,
Torvill and Dean, M and M, BHC and ??? Sure ain’t the
crack. BAGHA members enjoyed reprocicity of membership
with the BHC, that meant a member of one could use the
facilities of the other. The reality was no one from the
BAGHA ever went there alone. The fear was you might wake
the bar staff, who would complain about the extra
workload. An anti sceptic island of Daily Express
readers, naff tennis tournaments and Club World flyers.
The Golf Club set from Berks and Bucks with 2.3 kids, a
mortgage and a fear of the outside world they see on TV.
Anti globalisation riots and hitching through outback
Australia, they feel safe in the knowledge they have
been there done that and have a full understanding of
the issues thanks to BBC World and Discovery Channel. A
crisis there in the mini mansions of Basundhara is a
shortage of silver for a dinner party or the gardener
has run off with the maid’s younger sister.
Coffee
mornings see the Bitches Witches Association gather
round the dining table of a member, preferably a new
arrival, complaining about the injustice of it all. Why
is the maid so incompetent, why does the muezzin make
such an unholy racket? Why can’t we buy the proper
ingredients to make a spotted dick? Ignorance is bliss
and these coiffured madams possess the quickest grin in
town. They need it; it’s their only defence against the
stainless steel in the back syndrome that haunts all
their events.
It’s
getting dark outside, Yorkie’s getting emotional and
Chins arrives. Ruddy cheeked, jovial features, happy
smiling face. No chance of escape now, not that that was
ever a serious option, Chins does the honourable thing
and here we go again. Chins is a bit down at the moment,
and bemoans the slow speed of his project. That’s
normal, there must be something else grating his nerves,
getting him down. It will come out later, it usually
does with Chins. These guys are not giving to emotion,
wearing their hearts on their chest. They chew the fat,
get pissed and push their doubts to the bottom of the
glass, putting off for another day. Chins is different –
a touchy feely new Labour sort, brought up on sad Yankee
sitcoms where all the world’s problems are solved by a
good hug, and sob and let’s move on. For now, he has
retreated inside himself, outwardly a smiling Buddha
perched on a bar stool, inwardly seeking solace from a
double whisky, shaking the glass absently, watching the
ice bounce off the inside walls.
Muirman
strides confidently into the bar, stands on a stool and
gets a round in. Yorkie is sleeping, head slumped over
the bar, Chins is lightening up.
Lions
elbows Yorkie. “Too late, you missed it.”
“Missed
what?” Yorkie looks round all groggy.
“Muirman
is buying a round.”
“I must be
dreaming.” Yorkie rests his head on the bar again,
unable to countenance such a departure from the norms of
his world. “Think I’m bloody stupid?” No further
conversation is possible, the Leeds fan snoring gently
in his favourite seat.
Muirman
complains about the progress still being made on his
project. Talk then turns to the previous Friday. It had
been his birthday, and all the regulars had gathered
early for some hardcore elbowbending. By 2pm, though,
the Friday Club was in place, the decibel counter hit
the roof. Squaddie as ever was leading the racket.
Unable to stand 1 foot from someone and engage in
conversation, he always felt the need for the whole bar
to hear each and every conversation, egged on by his
grinning acolytes. The more serious Regulars were well
pissed off by this intrusion, a regular occurrence over
the weekend. It was agreed some action was necessary but
no one knew what. Lions suggested some kind of physical
violence, but Chips was too fat, Muirman to short and
Yorkie too old.
“I tell
you, it’sh the besht bar in the world this plash, God
blessh!” Yorkie wakes up and makes like Leeds have won a
corner thrusting his right arm forward aggressively from
the elbow.
“Leedsh.
Leedsh. Leedsh.” His right hand clenched into a fist,
punching the air.
“Sami,
throw that man out,” Muirman shouts over the twin sound
of Yorkie and the stereo pumping out early Stones.
Yorkie walks round the bar and hugs the short arsed
scouse.
“Sami,
give my little mate a beer,” and he wanders off to the
dunny shaking his head, mumbling away to himself.
Lions
turns to Chins. “If I turn out like that, promise you’ll
shoot me.”
“I’ll
shoot you any fucking time.” He laughs and then starts
singing along with the Stones and soon the whole bar,
with the exception of Lions, is yelling the words of
Brown Sugar. Lions walks off to the dunny, pausing next
to BC. “More dinosaurs here than Jurassic Park.”
In the
toilet, Yorkie is on his knees at the sink, phlegm
dribbling out the side of his mouth, his head resting on
the white enamel basin.
“Lionsh,
itsh fucking great in thish bar, I fucking love this
plash. Fucking Leedsh, Goonersh, Scoushersh, it’sh
mental. Besht bar in the world. Lionsh, I dream of
nightsh like thish…”
Lions
finishes up, washes his hand at the basin next to Yorkie,
content to ignore the ramblings of his mate.
“Right o
Compo.” Lions returns to the bar content to leave his
mate talking to the porcelain sink.
“…shitting
at home in Qatar. You’ll never know how much I mish
thish plash. I…”
Lions is
back at the bar where Sweaty is leading the massed ranks
in a rendition of Flower of Scotland. He goes up to
Chins.
“I think
the Flower of Yorkshire is drooping in the dunny as we
speak mate.” Chins goes off to investigate while Lions
gets one from his reserve in the fridge.
“…and I
tell you Lionsh, that time we had your lot outshide the
Peacock before the game we…oh, hi Chinsh, how’sh it
going mate?”
Chins bent
down and slipped his arms under Yorkies shoulders.
“C’mon mate, let’s get you home.”
“Thought
Lionsh wash here, fucking Arshenal bashtard.” Chins
backs out the restroom, dragging the limp Yorkie along
on his heels, past the kid’s play area through to the
bar. Yorkie’s head jerks up.
“BAGHA.
BAGHA. BAGHA.” he chants as Chins struggles. BC and
Sweaty all jump into help carry Yorkie outside and in to
Chins’ car where he instructs his driver to take the
heap in the back home.
The car
heads off to Road 71, a head appears out the window. “I
love thish fucking plash, it’sh…”They turn left on the
main road, out of sight and soon, mercifully, out of
hearing. The three friends go back in the bar, much
quieter than before.
“You’re an
arsehole Lions, why d’you just leave him there.” Chins
and Sweaty lay into him.
“What you
do with him?” Lions seems disinterested.
“Sent him
home.” Chins lights up and blows the smoke over his
shoulder.
“To do
what?”
“Sleep.”
“You sure
he’s gonna sleep? He’s gone back to his empty guesthouse
alone. At least here, we can watch over him, who’s gonna
watch him at home?” He gets a round in.
“You’re a
fucking shilling short you are Lions.” Chins shakes his
head. He could never reconcile Lions apparent
callousness at times like this with other sides of his
nature. He knew it wasn’t the ale speaking. “The guy’s
jet lagged, he’s pissed…”
“Tthe guy
has been thinking about this moment for the last few
months, his first night back, and you send him home
instead of letting him be with his mates. I just hope he
don’t do nothing stupid when he gets home,” says Lions.
“I worry
about you Lions, I really do.” Chins shakes his head and
necks his double scotch.
“Surely
not. There must be more deserving of your sympathy.”
This had
been getting heavy and Chins gratefully grabbed at the
way out extended by his mate.
“And don’t
call me Shirley. My dear Sami, give all these gentlemen
a drink.”
“Oh and
Sami, change the fucking music.” butts in Lions.
“Sorry,
nearly forgot. Sami, also give Lions a drink.”
Sweaty
calls out to Muirman, “What’s 15 across, second letter
C?” That’s the signal for newspapers to be extracted
from rear pockets, unfolded and placed on the bar, pens
to be chewed and much furrowing of eyebrows as the guys
unite to take on the Crosswords in various English
papers.
By 10
o’clock the newspapers are a soggy mess and Lions
is well gone. Chins has cheered up and decides to have
some fun, slagging off Thatcher as a heartless right
wing bitch who caused untold misery to the country. He
times it beautifully, Lions bites like a good ‘un, and
won’t let go. Everyone sits back and lets him rant and
rave, chuckling quietly among them selves. It is all
about timing, get him too early and he is on to it, get
him too late and his reaction is unpredictable.
“Best
Prime Minister the country ever had. Listen mate, when I
arrived in England, we were in the middle of the 3 day
week. I then lived through Grunwick. First OPEC, then
the unions, our country was on its fucking knees. The
patient was so sick even the IMF didn’t want to know.
The unions were taking the piss out of their own.
Remember, we had a Labour government. Fat lot of help
they were to the working man. People were complacent,
blaming other people for their problems rather than
trying to look within themselves for solutions. Blame it
on the nanny state, where people abdicated
responsibility for their lives to a large behemoth
called the Welfare State.”
“Behemoth,
that’s a long word for you,” says Chins.
“Actually
my lard arsed lily livered liberal…”
“The
name’s Chins, not Ashley!” A well-worn routine, it
always gets a giggle, not cos it’s funny but cos it is
so well worn. Bit like that comedy with the fallen
Madonna with the big boobies and the daft upper class
RAF pilots.
It is
getting towards kicking out time. Lions is now venting
his wrath on the Friday Club, Chips and Muirman joining
in when they can. Nobody knows if there will be a
general strike on the Monday, not even Sami. In fact,
nobody has discussed the political situation at all. It
had been a good night; escapism at it’s purest where the
outside world is little but an inconvenience until the
fantasy in the corner bar took hold again. Going from
the air-conditioned bar with it’s chilled lager and fish
and chips into an air-conditioned car complete with
driver, back to an air-conditioned luxury house with
more domestic staff than you could shake a stick at.
Because it
is not discussed, does not mean people are unaware of
the political stalemate around them. These are
intelligent guys, who see the consequences daily, and
seek respite with their own kind, the only unspoken rule
being Thou shalt not discuss business. Another reason
for animity with the Friday Club who live, breath, exalt
their bridge. It is the glue that held them together.
An
election is due later in the year, and the current
government under Miss Creant is busy passing lots of
laws involving heavily funded projects. The opposition,
under Bipplob, is determined to win the next election,
and seem to think calling a lot of general strikes was
the way to achieve this. The daily papers were full of
reports of fighting between opposition and government
supporters, all too frequent occurrences where the
victims were the most defenceless members of an all
ready poor society. Photographs screamed out daily,
showing rickshaws on fire, hawkers and street vendors
lying in a pool of blood, journalists beaten up,
gun-carrying hoodlums firing on a protest march. Anarchy
on the streets of a lawless society where justice was a
prize in a game show called The Price is Right. Western
art imitating Eastern life.
Reality
was meeting with government officials who were less
interested in seeing progress made than discussing how
many Pajeros should be included on the proposal. Reality
was paying a petty official to issue the correct permit.
Reality was sitting in a traffic jam as battling party
activists barricaded roads to fight in peace. Reality
was policeman soliciting payment from road users near
the only 5 star hotel in Dhaka. Reality was a meeting
cancelled because your opposite number had gone to watch
the cricket. Reality was another 12-year-old girl gang
raped, another girl having acid thrown on her face,
scarring her for life. Reality was factories going up in
flames for insurance purposes and sod the 34 people who
died.
This was
the reality the Regulars sought to escape from, indeed
all expats sought to escape to, seeking comfort in like
minded souls, seeking release in spurious intercourse.
Today had in fact seen serious trouble in the Motijheel
area. One of Bipplob’s many “advisers” led a charge near
a Government building. Defending policemen fired on the
crowd, 3 people were seen to go down. One of who was the
adviser, blood pouring from a leg wound. In retaliation,
opposition beat up a rickshaw wallah and set fire to his
livelihood. Well, he was there, he was ignoring the
hartal. Add them together and you get a puppet of the
ruling party. Or just some poor bastard in the wrong
place at the wrong time.
A loser on
2 counts, the faceless rickshaw driver was later given a
name, Babu. Stuck in hospital, where he’d been
manhandled by a couple of police officers, he’d seen his
job literally go up in smoke, and lying on the floor of
the crowded hospital waiting for treatment he had no
means to pay for. One of the policemen had emptied his
pocket of all his money. It hadn’t taken long. Babu was
another victim of the senseless violence that paralysed,
polarized even this land. He lived in a slum near where
he was attacked. That’s not true, he slept on the floor
of someone else’s slum. The guy who actually owned the
rickshaw Babu rode, the malek owned about 15
rickshaws, and each wallah had to pay the malek
40 taka a day rent (approx 90 US cents).
Babu came
from a village in the north east of the country. The
hottest, wettest region of a hot wet country. He had
moved to Dhaka 3 years earlier, pulling a rickshaw in
the city was financially more appealing than staying in
the village. In the city, he could work every day, earn
every day. In the village, his employer was a harsh
mistress, given to extremes, demanding always. Mother
Nature ruled the roost, deciding when to work when to
rest, when to eat, when to die. People died in the heat,
in the cold. No water is a killer; too much water takes
life equally. No quarter asked or given, in the Game of
Life there could only be one boss.
In Dhaka,
Babu started work at 5 am as the early commuters started
pouring into the business area. Well, to say 5 am is not
really accurate, it’s not as if he clocked in, but he
was ready to start work after subuh, the first prayer of
the day just before dawn. He was not alone. Official
estimates state there 128,000 registered rickshaws in
Dhaka. Unofficial figures put the number at 380,000,
there are mechanisms in place to regulate the business
but when the informal economy very possibly exceeds the
formal, people often don’t bother about going through
official channels. Do it the right way and pay a
burocrat, do it on the side and pay the police. They
still pay, it doesn’t matter whose stomach is being
filled, it sure as hell ain’t Babu’s. Whatever, there
are a large number, most of whom seem to be stationary
at any one time. For most short journeys, Babu charges 5
taka. That means he must do 8 journeys just to pay the
daily rent. He prefers to do the shorter journeys, a
McDonalds way of high turnover, low margin if he thinks
about it economically. He doesn’t. He thinks about
paying the rent. Then he thinks about lunch, another 30
taka. Then he will think about supper, same, about
another 30 taka. Everyday, Babu needs to earn 100 taka
minimum, just to stay in a job. That’s what Babu would
think about. But he is lucky. Often at the end of the
day, he has a bit left over. Waiting for a ride, he
would read the newspapers pasted to a nearby wall. He
read about someone called Miss Creant who ran the
country. She seemed very remote. The malek ran
his world. The police would sometimes come over and ask
for 5 or 10 taka. He read the name Bipplob. He saw the
violence almost daily, an accepted part of daily life.
When a general strike was called, he tried to keep a low
profile, but he still had to find his 100 taka
somewhere. The malek still demanded his rent, his
stomach demanded feeding.
He got by.
Just. He learned to keep a low profile, especially when
some toughs came through his slum community looking for
some hired help. He knew guys who went along, took
someone else’s shilling, well taka here, and go out to
the main road, throw a few stones, wave a banner, run
first this way then that, risk a beating from the police
or the toughs. All this for 50 taka, sometimes 75. Once
or twice he took the money but didn’t show up but that
could be dangerous. Babu just wanted to ride his
rickshaw, wanted to save for the trip back to his
village after Ramadhan each year when the city empties.
He paid to sleep on someone else’s floor, he paid to
ride someone else’s rickshaw, he paid to eat someone
else’s food. Just once a year he wanted to sleep in his
family’s home, eat his family’s food. He didn’t have
much, no, in Dhaka he had nothing and now even that had
been taken from him. What hurt the most, what caused him
to fight back the tears was the thought that he would
not be going home for Eid – ul – Fitri this year. They’d
even taken that from him.
Returning
to the village is not an option for Babu. Or others like
him. He may not have a lot in the big city but it beats
the village. There, he has no job. No land, no house.
Nothing. Here, at least, an illiterate, like Babu, can
work and earn a regular income. Until the hartal.
On the day
of the general strike, he read of this man Bipplob
saying how the strikes were meant to help the poor
people of Bangladesh. He thought about this as he lay on
the floor of the hospital. He thought about this, as a
crying mother was dragged beating and screaming as
another poor victim breathed his last. He thought about
this as a nurse kicked his outstretched leg, he thought
about this as he recalled an article on the wall where
the High Commissioner of some white country had praised
Bangladesh for it’s democracy, he thought about this
when someone started taking photographs of him.
While Babu
was being photographed, Bipplob sat on a dais, a gaggle
of microphones perched loosely in front of him. He had
just come from evening prayers; sweat glistened under
the TV lights. Next to him, he was surrounded by his
advisers. One chair was pointedly empty; he focused the
journalist’s attention on it.
“I tell
you, this government has lost its moral authority to
govern. They have the police out there doing their dirty
work. You saw them assault a peaceful march today. Why
they use laithi to assault innocent people? I tell you,
they are afraid…” the current Prime Minister had given
much the same speech when she had been in opposition.
Bipplob had been PM, he’d been kicked out, it was time
for him to move back in again.
He decried
the autocratic policies of a Government and it’s tool
the police who had put his adviser into hospital. He
failed to mention he was in the most expensive private
clinic in town staffed by overseas trained doctors. He
called for another general strike, this time for 2 days,
to protest at the police actions, which he called an
attack on democracy. As he called for the people to rise
up against the government, Lions was ranting about
Thatcher, and Babu was having his picture taken. Bipplob
never mentioned the rickshaw wallah, attacked by his
thugs. Babu never heard Bipplob on TV.
He just
lay on the floor of the hospital, ignored by all. He
just lay and watched the television cameras rushing
round, patients coming in, covered in bandages. Sitting
and watching. No one spoke with him. He had nothing to
contribute anyway. He certainly lacked the wherewithal
to settle his bill. But he would slowly filter through
the system and the private safety net that does operate
would eventually kick in, he would be dealt with and he
would be fed and he would be sent on his way. With a few
taka in his shirt pocket. Because there are people who
make an effort.
As Sami
closed the bar at the BAGHA, Dhaka was quiet. A bus on
the Airport Road was gently smouldering, a burnt out
shell. Lions went home, convinced he’d saved the world
again, Chins returned home, where the ghosts he’d
earlier banished returned. Bipplob felt righteous, at
ease with himself. Miss Creant was into her 2nd
day of a 3-day shopping trip to Singapore. Her brother
was a guitarist, and as she sat in her suite overlooking
Orchard Road strumming on a new 6 string she’d bought
him, she was grateful there were no prying eyes. No one
to see her strumming while her capital city burnt.
|
