The sound of Dhaka city

Once on a particularly smothering hot day, on a CNG ride to work, I was stuck in the most heinous traffic for over two hours. Over the yelling drivers, honking cars, and incessant cursing over why the CNGs were trying to overtake the expensive cars, I was listening to my usual cycle of songs. As coincidence would have it, David Gilmour in his seraphic voice posed the question: "So, so you think you can tell/ Heaven from hell?"

Now if you've grown up, lived, worked, and tried to make it in this city, you recognise the struggles that this place throws at you. There is barely any time left after surviving this place, let alone exploring and living out dreams. So, to contextualise Gilmour's question: Yes, I was the main character in my very own cage, and in the quietly accepted war that wages on in here everyday, I am merely playing a walk-on part.

But I think about Dhaka city a lot. Its people, known and unknown; its endless traffic and suddenly emptying streets; its treacherous heat and humidity, the suffocating crowd and the dust; the eventual calm after a pouring afternoon and the continuing downpour late into the night; the bright cotton clouds in early March and the crimson September sunsets. It's hard not to constantly think about Dhaka city. Often it is so engulfing, and not always in a good way, which is why sometimes it is hard to explain why I chose to come back to this place, leaving  behind a "life in bidesh" when I had already escaped—"especially when so many people [were] desperately looking for an out".

It is hard for people, and at times for myself, to understand why for two desperate years—as Mohiner Ghoraguli put it—my lungs longed for the reassurance that came with the smell of burning diesel. It yearned to return to the heat, the stifling air, the overbearing hoards of people and the "haukau" at the turn of every corner. I often wonder if I romanticise Dhaka shohor because I come from a certain class of privilege that enables me to roam the streets at one in the morning and wear whatever I want—as long as it is inside the boundaries of my "secure neighbourhood". But that is a privilege I have now; I grew up in parts of this city where security wasn't always ensured. And here's the thing—and I can speak only for myself here—while there's so much to change about this city, there are also things about this place that I wouldn't give up on for all the comfort in the world. Dhaka shohor, for all it does, also creates music, and that music tells numerous stories.

All these places I spent my childhood and adolescence in created certain sounds that became the defining character traits of that area, and I grew to identify with the stories behind them. Like the rustling you hear in the ancient Puran Dhaka bakorkhani shops of the brown paper bag when the dokandars pack the warm delicacies to have with tea at home; the honking and rushing cars as you cross the overcrowded Shapla Chottor or Purana Polton turn in the morning; the shuffling of books and papers in the old mills and bookstores of Bangla Bazaar when your mejo mama takes you to buy books from "where books are made"; the clinking noise you hear of a teaspoon against the transparent glasses standing in a tong er dokan in "Lalmatia Academiar pasher goli" or literally anywhere in Dhanmondi or Mohammadpur; or the sound of a booming laughter and the specific tone you have when chatting with your friends as you walk to and back from school. Looking back, these are the kind of sounds I remember my life by.

At times, thinking about Dhaka being a quieter place seems like wishful thinking, but having lived for a few years in capacious Australia, I have somehow grown to listen to the sounds beyond just the noises and even appreciate them for the stories they tell me.

There's a song by Shayan Chowdhury, "Dhaka Raate", written by author Anisul Hoque, that says, "Nijhum shohor curfew dae pahara". It is a rather curious piece of lyrics that breeds life into the city. If you're old enough, you may easily recall the anti-hero Dhaka city had become during the 2007 curfew after riots broke out all over the country. I remember while returning from coachings during evenings in those days how the disposition of the clamouring city had changed almost overnight to be enveloped by a silence that was stealthy and foreboding. Dhaka had taken on the Big Brother-esque role, watching everyone and everything. I realise now why the silence reverberated so loud at the time— I was not used to it. I don't think many of us are. As overbearing as it is, we are used to the sounds of Dhaka shohor—the "onek dure Komolapur-er train er bashi,/ bus depot te briddho bus er hotath kashi"—they characterise this city.

Yet on days, I hear the blaring sirens a little louder. The screaming voices, the muffled cries, and the soundless tears are more terrifying and infuriating than on other days.

Shibu Kumer Shill dubbed this city a necropolis. Sometimes, it doesn't feel like anything else—Dhaka shohor is where many people's dreams come to die. From the boy who topped his classes in his village, came to the metropolis to realise his dreams, only to become another footprint among the shuffling feet, stepping on others' toes to get on a bus at Farmgate. Many dreams are crushed in the train tracks, terminals, and streets everyday as people find themselves victims of hideous accidents. Such major and minor instances of brutality take place in this city everyday, and many act as though these are the inevitable collateral damages of development. And we, as individuals, are helpless to move even one cog in this mammoth, tightly wound system. How could we change a system that is bigger than us all? So the poet offers: "Kete fela gachh bhule jabe shob shok/ kichhu shobuj patar krondon tule rekho".

But understanding and loving this city is perhaps a more complex and circadian choice. I make it because there are still things—intrinsic things—that tether me to this place. I have found my peace in the pattering raindrops during afternoons and the krishnochuras and bokuls covering the drenched streets afterwards. I found comfort in the winds that whistle outside my window during a storm at night. I remember to keep stock of the losses I must avenge. But I get to hear this city's stories and made myself a home amidst them. So I accepted this "dhulo dhulo shohor" for what it is, and for me, there are these pockets of triumphant moments when I realise "ekhane modhu ek piece chaa-e,/ kora ginger mara".

Maisha Syeda is a writer, painter, lecturer, and the Sub editor of Star Books and Literature.