A journalist's journey to office

Illustration: Sharier Khan

Back then, I lived in Mirpur and worked in Dhanmondi. By that time, I had been a journalist for three years. I used to commute either by bus or by baby taxi. Asking my father for a lift was not an option because it would inevitably lead to arguments. At the very least, I needed to be in the mood for a fight.

Oh, you might not know — my father, who topped the board exams back in the 1950s, started working in the Pakistan Civil Service and retired as a secretary. Because of this, he believes he knows everything, and someone like me — a failure in studies who paints, sings while playing the guitar, and works in journalism — does not hold much value in his eyes. It is quite natural for a stern officer like him to have such a mindset. The problem is, I believe I know better than him. Our clashes between his 1940s mentality and my modern outlook were inevitable. My mother knew this too.

One time, I reluctantly agreed to ride with him to the office. I didn't want to, but the sky was cloudy, and with unusual affection, my father said, "Come on, I'll drop you off. It might rain on the way!"

So, we set off. This was in the early 90s. Father started talking about politics; I responded with monosyllables. Then he asked about my future plans and said, "Listen, it's time you look for a proper job!"

Unable to contain myself, I coughed and said, "What do you think I am doing now?"

With his characteristic smirk, my father said, "Is that journalism even a job? Can you run a household with that?"

In a sharp tone, I retorted, "What is a job then? One with a revolving chair? A chair with a towel draped over the backrest? Where you have to say 'Sir, Sir' all the time..."

Father got angry then, "Why do you always have to give sarcastic answers? I told you to get a job!"

The argument escalated. Outside it was raining, and inside the car, we were having a heated debate. At one point, both of us fell silent. Then, about 200 yards from my office in Dhanmondi, he stopped the car in the rain and said, "I'm in a hurry!"

So, I arrived at the office drenched in rain! Since then, I avoided riding in his car.

That day, under the scorching sun, I left home and waited for a bus at Mirpur Number One. No bus arrived! It had been a long time—no buses, no scooters. There were a few tempos. I wasn't particularly keen on riding a tempo. Every time I did, my knees hurt a lot because the seating space was so cramped. But seeing no other vehicle, I moved towards a tempo.

"Come on, get in! Mirpur to New Market!"

In a few seconds, the tempo was full of passengers. I noticed a spot beside the driver's seat! That was perfect. Instead of squeezing into the back, I could sit comfortably next to the driver. I got on. The tempo helper, a sharp 12-13-year-old boy, banged on the body of the tempo and hung on as it started moving, shaking vigorously.

No sooner had we started, someone at the back said they had gotten on the wrong vehicle and needed to get off. Some passengers grumbled. The tempo stopped; everyone scrambled out, and suddenly the tempo tipped backward; meaning the driver and I were now floating in the air! The helper quickly cleared the passengers and stabilized the vehicle.

Free thrill ride! My heart was pounding. The tempo driver laughed and said, "Don't be scared! What's the worst that can happen!"

Okay! The tempo resumed its journey, shaking along. I was sweating in the midday heat. Since it didn't have much speed, there wasn't much breeze either! Anyway, getting to the office was all that mattered.

After passing Kalyanpur, trouble began—the tempo suddenly stopped. The engine was dead! Darn!

We all got off. The driver checked a few things and said, "The fuel is low! Hey Sadarul, give me a hand!"

If the fuel is low, you refuel it. What's there to handle?

The skinny 12-13-year-old boy asked a few passengers, "Brothers, come on—let's tilt the tempo!"

Tilting meant lifting the back of the tempo so the front stayed down. The idea was to get whatever fuel was left in the tank to reach the pipe's mouth. I doubted this would work. But putting doubt aside, the tempo started with a sputter. We got back on. After about 500 yards, it stopped again. The passengers lifted the back again. After a few hundred yards, it stopped before Gonobhaban! Only half a kilometer to the petrol pump!

I thought I might have to walk the rest of the way. There weren't many vehicles in sight in this heat!

But no! The driver still had tricks up his sleeve! The driver told me, "Sir, you move to the back! I'll manage!"

What would he manage? I moved to the back, and the skinny helper moved to the front. The driver had opened the petrol cap beside the steering wheel. The helper put his mouth on it and blew—immediately, the vehicle started! Incredible!

Meanwhile, I was sitting on one of the back seats of the tempo. It jolted—sending us all into the air, the seat sliding away—then back down; my hip caught on the iron frame instead of the seat. We struggled to right ourselves as the tempo moved forward.

Looking ahead, I saw the helper standing, holding a rod with one hand, bending his head down, blowing into the tank, and we were moving! This must be some kind of miracle! Anyway, we reached the pump eventually and refueled, completing the rest of the journey relatively safely.

I never rode that kind of tempo again!

A year before that, my office was in Motijheel. Traveling from Mirpur to Motijheel was like an inter-district journey. Most of the time, I traveled by bus; sometimes, I'd stop at a friend's house in Tallabag for lunch and then take a rickshaw, scooter, or his motorcycle to the office. We both worked in the same office.

One such winter afternoon, after lunch at my friend's house, we went out looking for a rickshaw—he didn't want to ride his motorcycle due to back pain. The area was deserted. We found a rickshaw after a while. The rickshaw puller, a young man wrapped in a shawl, stopped lazily. At that time, the fare from Tallabag to Motijheel's Dainik Bangla intersection was 8 taka. But the guy asked for 10 taka. We were shocked at the 2 taka extra since money was more valuable back then. But there were no other rickshaws around! We reluctantly agreed to the 10 taka fare.

We got on the rickshaw and started discussing the future of the world; the rickshaw puller was lazily pedaling. A few minutes into the ride, a strong stench hit us; my friend and I held our breath for a few seconds to let the smell pass!

"Ugh! What a state Dhaka is in! People relieve themselves anywhere," we said, and resumed our conversation.

Two minutes later, the stench returned! This time, I frowned at my friend—my friend glared at me accusingly. "Stop this!" I sternly told my friend!

In an equally stern voice, my friend retorted, "You always do these lowly things!"

As we lightly argued, the stench hit us again!

This time, we both stopped—we turned to the young rickshaw puller.

But he was unfazed. Wrapped in his shawl, he was pedaling intently, focused on the road.

"Hey, mister! Hey!" I shouted.

"Are you letting out one after another?" my friend asked.

The rickshaw puller remained unfazed. Like a cow chewing cud, he pedaled steadily, our questions seemingly falling on deaf ears.

"Beware! Don't let out another one!" I shouted.

I don't know if he heard. Maybe he did! After all, people have some sense of shame, right?

But not this rickshaw puller! Two minutes later, the stench hit us again!

My friend and I shouted again, "Hey mister, what did you eat? Your stomach is rotten!"

The rickshaw puller remained unfazed, pedaling away and releasing gas periodically! By then, I counted how many times he had done this! When he let out the seventh stinky blast, I shouted, "On top of charging 2 taka extra, you're torturing us with your gas? We'll deduct 1 taka for each gas blast!"

But the rickshaw puller was unfazed; he was intently focused, as if taking a final exam—neither looking at anyone nor listening to anyone—just pedaling away!

Next time I smelled the stench, I pinched my nose and shouted, "8! I'm deducting 8 taka!"

Then 9! Then 10! By the time we reached Motijheel office, he had 13 taka deducted!

As soon as the rickshaw stopped, the shawl-wrapped rickshaw puller got down, turned to us for the first time, and said, "Sir, please give me the extra 2 taka!"

I angrily shouted, "Extra? You should give us money!"

The rascal grinned and said, "Why, sir — I let out 13 times, didn't I?"

What could we say! The cheeky rascal! We laughed until we were in tears!

The next story is from around 2009. It's about my colleague Ashish.

Ashish had to urgently go to Dhanmondi from our Karwan Bazar office. The roads were crowded—no suitable vehicle was in sight. Finally, he saw a black taxi, and without inspecting it properly, he got in, happy to have found a ride. He had many papers with him. As he sat down and started organizing the papers, he first noticed a strong odor from the old seat. What could he do? The taxi had no AC—all windows were open; hopefully, the smell would fade as they moved.

The car started with a groan and began shaking violently—clearly, it had no suspension. The jostling made Ashish's papers fall. His body was jolted in various places; the vibrations concentrated at the tip of his nose, causing it to tingle.

"Hey driver," Ashish called from the back seat and looked ahead.

There was no dashboard in the car. Instead, he could see the engine directly, with oil dripping from pipes.

Ashish finally noticed his driver—a young man who looked like a hoodlum or a member of a street gang based on his hairstyle and outfit! His toothy grin didn't make Ashish feel safe at all.

"Yes, sir?" the driver said.

Ashish's eyes widened as he saw the driver holding a mere iron frame—the skeletal remains of a steering wheel!

Ashish nervously asked, "Why is your car like this?"

The young driver shrugged, "It runs, sir! Just a bit bumpy—that's all!"

Ashish fell silent, thinking he might have fallen prey to a gang! What use was talking!

In the meantime, he noticed that the driver turned his head to look at any woman on the street, sometimes even turning the steering wheel. So, Ashish coughed to refocus his attention on the road. The driver might have thought he had bronchitis!

As the car bumped along past Dhanmondi 27, it suddenly started raining. The driver immediately pulled over to the side of the road.

Ashish thought, "This is it! His gang must be waiting here! They'll now climb in from both sides, rub ointment on my eyes, and rob me of all my money, leaving me stranded on the road!"

Before Ashish could prepare to get out, the driver, amidst the rain, picked something from the car floor and jumped out. What was it—a gun or a knife?

The driver stood by his door, preventing Ashish from getting out, "Sir, I need to roll up the windows!"

Ashish stammered, "What?"

He saw the driver holding a window handle. Ashish then noticed his window had no handle—just a screw. The other door was the same! None of the doors had anything! That one handle had to be fitted onto the screw to roll the windows up and down! The young driver did this for all the windows! Then he started the car again with a jolt!

No, the guy wasn't part of any gang. That's just how advanced Dhaka's taxicabs were at one time!