Published on 10th March 2014

Dhaka...My Dream

  • In the cracks on walls and ant holes, we bury our bulging greed, asking for just a little more. When a plot of land became a city, we occupied it. Now that city is a prisoner of its benevolence. Whose home shall a city be? Whose dream was it and who lives the nightmare?

  • Dhaka the lost child of random, feverish growth—who shall redeem you?

  • Because of congestion and insufficient sunlight few houses in Dhaka have trees, gardens or flowerpots. At the same time, destruction of original vegetation and unplanned building has resulted in the expansion of agriculture onto less-productive lands, creating erosion and runoff, among other by-products and unchecked weed growth. It’s becoming a dead city.

  • Like any megacity Dhaka has a distinctive spatial form, a complex unit of production and a single labor market. The urban system designed a hundred years ago for less than a million is blatantly unworkable for a population that has exceeded 10 million and is being tested for 15 million.

  • Whose home shall a city be? Whose dream was it and who lives the nightmare?

  • When a plot of rural land became an urban city, we occupied it. Now that city is a prisoner of its benevolence.

  • Once upon a time there was a blue River that flowed into the city, but now it is going to lose its natural beauty. Uncontrolled and desperate urbanization is now destroying the ecosystem of the city.

  • If a city is made of dreams and desires then a megacity is made of dreams, desires and fears. Fear that there will be no space for our footprints.

  • The green matrix is lost. The housing boom has eroded parks and open spaces. Houses often share walls. Dhaka is wrestling urban violence, industrialization and other exigencies.

  • The hungry bellies of villages are voting with their feet, thronging to Dhaka, half a million a year. The restless come, the city burst in tandem. Everyday thousand of rural people come to Dhaka city for survive. Dhaka is the keeper of strong survivors, restless migrants and climate refugees.

  • Soot and debris. Trash and scrap: is your story. Only in memories you shall be green. Land is no longer for sale. My piece of sky and water is left.

  • Long time ago there was a city. Now they say we have megacities, like some giant kicking up a cacophonous racket. Dhaka the lost child of random, feverish growth—who shall redeem you? Together we swallow the keeper, together we write a poem about the death of a city.

  • Who once owned your keys? Who let us in? Who forgot to ask us to love you as our kin?

  • Who is the maggot? Who is the beast? Why is no one pausing to stop this decay?

  • In Bangladesh, lots of children are sleep in the urban area. It would be bus terminal, train station, footpath, riverbank and many other places like floating. More than 20,000 children have to stay in open sky. Poverty, natural disasters, river erosion, flood, famine and rising water level have an effect on most of the children, and they become homeless.