The sounds of Dhaka

They say New York is the city that never sleeps but really, it’s Dhaka. Every moment of every day is filled with noise. It pours out of every corner of the city, at every hour, and never stops.

The fan in the my bedroom acts as a constant hum of white noise. Even though it’s cooling down weather-wise now, it helps to muffle the sporadic noise from the street below. The morning prayer echoes in the distance around 5am and I stir a bit, rolling onto my side, pushing my ear plugs into my ears a bit further. My alarm usually goes off a few hours later but by that time, it’s more of a reminder to wake up that anything else.

After the morning prayer, the city becomes even more alive. Men with wooden carts start the day by cycling up and down the streets, selling the most amazing array of fresh vegetables, shouting up to the windows above. More street sellers start to gather, my favourite being the chicken salesmen, shouting ‘murgi!’ (chicken!) at the top of their lungs, over and over again. They have huge baskets of live chickens balancing on their heads, with their feet tied together so they can’t escape as they cluck away. The bells of the rickshaws on the street start to get progressively louder as the morning commute begins too, as do honking horns from CNGs and cars. The beggars also want to get in on the flurry of action of course, and walk up and down the street shouting ‘Allah, Allah’ to the windows above, hoping some change will tumble down to them from a balcony above.

In the flat, our water drips constantly and the cold shower makes for a swift 'in and out' followed by a much needed hot cup of tea in the morning, and as I stand over the hob of hissing gas, waiting for the kettle to whistle, I can hear the neighbours chatting and cooking through the window next door. Once ready to brave the outdoors, I run down the flight of stairs to the main gate and the Dhaka noise really begins.

People are constantly shouting to me, ‘Apa!’ (Madam!), ‘Sister!’, anything to get my attention. And as I walk up our lane to the main road, does it strike me that everything’s alive and on the move. Street sellers making food, selling clothes, fabric, books, gadgets. People walking everywhere, cars, buses filled with people (sometimes even on the roof), hundreds of rickshaws, CNGs weaving through traffic with no defined lanes. Men drinking tea, smoking and reading the newspaper at tea stalls. Children on their way to school, shouting and waving to the ‘bideshi’ through their little school carts (like a rickshaw but with a little cart at the back that has bar windows). Traffic wardens shouting, waving their wooden batons as they scold beggars for running through the fluid lanes of chaos. The journey to work has truly begun.

Arriving at the office is becoming a routine affair and once I settle in, becomes a sea of language, floating in and out of English and broken Bengali with colleagues and the tea boys. From my desk all I can hear is traffic down below; the horns and voices continue, with no end in sight. Lunch is a communal affair with all of us sitting around a table, the language mix and passing of clanging dishes, mmm’s and ah’s enjoying the food - all in all, a general hive of activity. Before I blink it’s the end of the day and off back into the busy streets I go, trying to negotiate on getting a CNG home through the ‘onek’ jam, bargaining on price at length, trying not to get ripped off.

No matter where you go in Dhaka, there is traffic; any time, on any route. I have no idea where people are going at all hours but traffic seems to act as the heartbeat of the city, keeping it alive, but hanging buy a thread.

Sunset through the streets and smog signal dinner time for me as I roll up to the grocery store to pick up something to eat. The shop workers know me by now and ‘hello madams’ echo throughout the store, people offering to give me advice on everything I put in my basket. Nothing is anonymous here. Outside, the neighbourhood streets are waiting and the local street children follow me home, chatting away in Bengali as I try to communicate with them the best I can.

Arriving at the flat doesn’t symbolize the end of the day. The noises from the street below continue to bubble and the frequent power cuts usually means cooking in the dark so there’s lots of fumbling, dropping things and the buzzing of mosquitoes in the candlelight as i prepare my meal. Dining with my flat mates accounts for an often hilarious discussion of the weird and wonderful things we’ve all encountered throughout our day. A time to share the experience.

Then, all of a sudden, it’s time for bed already and for the next day to begin.
Let the noise continue…