Musings
Uncomfortably
Numb
SRABONTI NARMEEN ALI
Dhaka -- a paradoxical entity in itself. In
the midst of all the chaos and confusion there is a whole
new world of incomprehensible contradictions. Here, in the
mainstream metropolis of Bangladesh, one can see both sides
of the coin -- the constant mix of rich and poor. We are thrown
together in our everyday lives, living side by side like pieces
of chocolates in a box -- we share the same space, but there
is nothing else that ties us together. It is fair to say that as the more
privileged class, those of us who are not dying of malnutrition
and out begging on the streets should be more tolerant of
the less fortunate. Unfortunately, constant exposure to certain
things leads to habitual tendencies. The more we are exposed
to poverty and the underprivileged, the more desensitized
we get, which leads to a shameless lack of tolerance on our
parts. We forget that the other side has as much a right to
share our space as we do. But no, we get frustrated. They
get in our way, harass us for money, stare at us funny and
walk in front of our fast moving cars without a second thought.
And we, in turn, lash out in our irritation.
I
saw a crippled, old man while I was stuck in traffic today.
He was standing in front of a variety store. His frayed, yellowing
'genji' hung loosely over his rainbow-coloured 'lungi'. He
was carrying a broken 'lathi' in one hand. The blackened,
grubby fingers of his other hand clasped a steel bowl, half-heartedly
filled with coins. A young boy in well-fitted jeans and a
black t-shirt came striding out of the store. His bright blue
Adidas sneakers shone in the sunlight with each springing
step he took. The old man hobbled towards the boy, with new
purpose -- determination. He held his bowl out for money.
The boy shoved him aside as he hurriedly walked to his car,
his keys jingling loudly as he swung them around his index
finger, his other hand casually sinking itself into the pocket
of his jeans. He never looked back to see the old man losing
his balance and tripping on his 'lathi'. He had already driven
away when the steel bowl crashed to the floor, and the coins
clinked and clanked all over the pavement in front of the
store. The man struggled to get up while the store owners
yelled at him, telling him to move. The insistent ringing
of my cell phone distracted me and I looked away. I picked
up the call and talked to a friend about our dinner plans
for the evening. I remembered the man only when my car started
moving forward. By then however, I had other things on my
mind, and I didn't bother looking back.
We never look back, that's our problem. We
never think twice. In Dhaka, where Nissan Patrols and Range
Rovers unmistakably terrorise rickshaws and CNG's, and where
four-story houses tower over slums, there is no need to think
twice. Poverty is not a novelty for us, as it is for foreigners
who come here for the first time, wrinkling their noses at
the pungent smells wafting through the air, and raising their
eyebrows at the sight of a half crippled child leading a blind
man through a busy street. These foreigners, once here long
enough, soon learn too. They stop feeling sorry for the beggars
who never cease to pound their dirty hands on your car window,
staining the glass, or the slew of street urchins who accost
you when you walk outside of a store. They become (like us)
complacent. As long as these so-called distractions do not
invade our space we need not bother with their problems. Once
they do cross that line we teach them to remember their place
by using physical force or harsh words, or in most cases,
complete denial of their existence.
It
was pouring when I was coming back from work. A little girl
in a magenta coloured dress with white flowers was walking
on the side of the street. In the downpour I could only distinguish
a spot of magenta moving at snail speed. Sidling up to my
car door she knocked. Her big brown eyes met mine as she leaned
her head against my window, her eyelashes dripping with tears
and rain. I could see now that her hair was almost blond from
the exposure to the sun. Her voice was carried far away by
the sound of rain. A loud rumble of thunder cracked through
the air, and we both jumped, startled. If I opened my window
now I would get drenched. I shook my head at her, as if to
say "No, Go Away." She walked away slowly. The thunderstorm
slowly ate up the small splash of magenta, until I could no
longer see it. My car moved forward, and I didn't bother looking
back.
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