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10 Things I Hate About Dhaka
10 Things I Hate About You is a popular Hollywood teen romance. In a pivotal scene, a young girl named Kat reads out a poem in front of her class as she is heartbroken about her classmate Pat. Dhaka is notorious for breaking our hearts. Here’s my take on Dhaka guided by the poem.
“I hate the way you talk to me,” Dhaka! You are loud and obnoxious. You get jittery easily. You love to show your might depending on the size of your wheels, the flag stands that you bear or the hooters that you blow. You are rude when you wear a helmet. Your head accessory makes you part of a notorious gang that can throng and throw tantrums. You shout and scream. You get physical when you talk. I hate the way you talk and talk, and do not change at all. I hate it when those who are not supposed to talk, say it all. And those who are supposed to talk, do not have anything to say. And most of all, I hate the way you mastered the art to gag us all.
“I hate the way you cut your” roads, Dhaka! I know it hurts as different agencies take different times to rip you open. They insert cables to rejuvenate your nerves to make sure that things flow all right. The colossal concrete columns look over you like surgeons watching you being cut open on an operation table. “Are you numb, Dhaka? Has the toxic air put you to sleep? Do you feel any pain?” The columns of surgeons seem to ask.
“I hate the way you drive your car,” Dhaka! You come from all different directions. You are colour blind. Green means stop, even eternally so. Red means the colour of a police sergeant’s eyes that pry all over you. Yellow, my dear, is the sick, jaundiced state we are all in.
“I hate it when you stare.” There is little care for privacy. Everything is everyone’s business here in Dhaka. You stare at an inferno in its full blaze. Your stare is more important than those who have come to douse it. You stare at bodies, encouraging others to get under the sartorial wrap.
“I hate the big” mess that you dump here and there. A city filled with filth that reads my mind. Has there been any study to show the connection between the waste outside and the waste within? Dhaka, you should own up to the meaning of your name and keep your filth all covered. Or do you prefer the ritual drum root of your name to make all dirty laundry public? How can you allow all your dirt to be washed away by the river that is near? Little do you care that the water can wash back and come to our doors when the monsoon is here.
“I hate the way you’re always right.” I hate that you do not give us our rights. Life is taxing here, as our bills would say. But there is no way to prove you wrong as you would always have the final say.
“I hate it when you lie,” Dhaka. You keep on making promises. Then once you realise that I do not exercise my franchise, you always have it your way. You can stop all road dividers at your whim and not find it foul. You do not care how much longer the other passengers will be on the road with the avoidable increase in traffic volume.
“I hate it when you make me laugh.” Even worse when you make me cry. I laugh when you bring the circus to the town. Singers and players come to entertain us. Firecrackers lit up the sky. You give the sign of affluence as if to prove that money in the city actually flies. I laugh when people buy gold-plated jalebi only to think their excrement runs through the same sewage of those whose lives are as complicated as that jalebi . The rich are getting richer, and the poor are getting poorer. You do not care if there are rich man’s sports creating a gulf, separating the East from the West. You do not care if the river gets narrowed for recreational clubs. You do not care if you can stop the traffic from entering sticker-only zones. Whose city is it anyway, Dhaka? I cry.
“I hate the way you’re not around.” I hate the way an ambulance cannot find a way to carry patients to hospitals. I hate the way when there are hardly any decent services around. Have you ever wondered, Dhaka, why there is an equal number of pharmacy shops and eateries? That’s my guesstimate, but if I am right, then all we do here is just eat and fall sick. There are hardly enough healthy spots. The traffic jam sucks the life juice out of us. We eat, sleep, and die. Yet, there is no slot for us to have our last respite when we die. You will simply churn our bones away when our body has deposited the last drop of nitrogen to enrich the soil of your burial ground.
“I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.” Indeed, I should hate you more for being the least liveable city. Yet, Dhaka, I am in love with you. I know your nooks and crannies. You are the first of many of my firsts. You are the crowd where I am never alone. You are the faces that I never get tired of facing. My first day at school, my first movie in the cinema hall, my first truancy from school, my first Eid prayer with Dad, my first visit to a puja mandap, and my first escapade into a park. To detach from you is to detach from my sole self. I have been around. I have seen cities that are great and small. Life in Dhaka beats it all. And my heart beats with the beat of Dhakeswari dhaak , Dhaka. I hate to see you lose your charm.
“I hate the way you talk to me,” Dhaka! You are loud and obnoxious. You get jittery easily. You love to show your might depending on the size of your wheels, the flag stands that you bear or the hooters that you blow.
Dr Shamsad Mortuza
is a professor of English at Dhaka University, and former pro-vice-chancellor of the University of Liberal Arts Bangladesh (ULAB).