Inflation has eased. So, why does the informal economy keep bleeding?

Mohammad Haider Ali Bhuiyan has been running a tea stall at Eskaton Garden for decades, longer than even some of the area's permanent residents. 

He has seen regimes fall, politicians flee and residents shift to other neighbourhoods, but Haider Bhai still patiently stands behind the same tin stove and wooden counter, pouring tea for the weary office workers, students and rickshaw-pullers who stop by his stall for a break. 

But earning his daily bread has become difficult in recent times.    

Asked how life was, he replied, "Really bad. Now I can barely manage my daily meals. My income has shrunk to less than half of what I used to earn before."

Jesmin Apa, who runs another tea stall beside Haider Bhai's, had a similar response, "Before, we could at least eat regularly with what we earned from this shop. Now, we can barely manage one meal a day." 

Inflation data fails to explain their hardship: In October 2025, Bangladesh recorded an inflation rate of 8.17%, the lowest in over three years. 

Yet, Jesmin laments, "Rice that cost Tk60 per kg is now worth Tk80-85. Prices of onions, potatoes, everything has gone up. Even my children's notebooks cost more. My income hasn't gone up. Tell me, where will the money come from?"

The numbers that explain Jesmin and Haider's predicament, however, is the poverty rate; poverty surged to 27.93% in 2025, up from 18.7% in 2022, according to a recent estimate by the Power and Participation Research Centre (PPRC).

Since August last year, rice prices have also surged in waves, even during peak Aman and Boro harvests. Despite bumper production, steady imports, and healthy government stocks, consumers are now paying Tk5–17 more per kilogram than a year ago.

Furthermore, according to the PPRC study, for more than two years, the national minimum wage has remained below the inflation rate, implying that household expenses are outpacing income, effectively reducing real earnings.

However, the state of the informal economy goes beyond what the macroeconomic outlook can portray.

Take Jesmin's stall, for instance, which once drew locals, office workers and day labourers alike. But she does not get as many customers anymore.  

Haider mentioned that local politicians would regularly visit his stall as well, but they are nowhere to be seen. Most of these politicians are long gone, along with their ill-gotten gains and extravagant expenditures. 

This pattern repeats in other trades as well. 

Dulal, a CNG driver, spends most of his days waiting for passengers. 

"Before, passengers were aplenty — and generous," he said. "Now I earn Tk10,000 from a part-time job, and whatever I can from rides. But that's not enough. There are fewer passengers, and they don't have much to spend. People prefer battery-run rickshaws now. They're cheaper than CNGs and faster than paddle rickshaws." 

Paddle rickshaw-pullers earnings have gone down as autorickshaws are replacing them.

Sayed, a paddle rickshaw-puller explained the situation further, "Before, I could go home three or four times a month," he said. "Now it's once every three or four months. From morning till night, if I'm lucky, I barely make Tk500. Today I started at five in the morning and earned only Tk300."

The pattern is clear: the cost of living is climbing up, and income refuses to move, so the lower the income, the more intense the financial burden. The stories can be different, but together they draw a single picture — work shrinking, expenses stretching, and dignity thinning in between. 

Sufia Aktar and Husna Begum, originally from Satkhira, have been working in Dhaka for the past 10 years as house helps. At the capital's Agargaon area, they worked in numerous households. "I remember back then it was Tk300 per chore. But now it is Tk1,000," Husna said. 

They are paid according to the number of chores they do: for example, if Husna does dish-washing, mopping and laundry, she will be paid Tk3,000 for the three chores at the end of the month.

Agargaon is generally called 'office para', as numerous government and semi-government offices, public hospitals, and museums are nearby. Besides government colonies, many officers reside in apartments and flats nearby, which are the primary households Husna and Sufia work in.

"Even last year, many of our employers would give us extra money, leftover food, sometimes fish if we cut and cleaned those. But now, a lot of them have left the area or been transferred outside Dhaka," said Sufia.

The maids say they are now planning to increase the amount to Tk1,200 per chore. "We cannot manage anymore. From January, my landlord is also going to increase house rent by Tk1,000. We need a raise too," Husna said.

Small shopkeepers, who once relied on steady local credit and a handful of regular patrons, feel the losses keenly. 

"Before 5 August, last year, the local ward councilor used to eat and drink from my shop. After any political event, he would feed his people here. His bills alone could reach as high as Tk40,000-50,000 a month," said Rahat, a tea stall owner in Agargaon. The councilor would eventually clear his dues at the end of the month. 

"They left about Tk70,000-80,000 worth of bills unpaid. That money is gone. Who will I ask for it from?" 

The same tone lingers outside Dhaka as well. 

Subhan Molla, a boatman in Pirojpur, has been ferrying people, bicycles, goats, and sacks of grain for years across the Kajibacha River. "I used to give a certain amount of 'donation' to the previous collector of this ghat," he said. "Now new people have come, their rules are different. My movement has become difficult."

Meanwhile, the number of customers has fallen. Goods used to move in bulk, but not anymore. Competition has grown as well.

"Before, only two of us rowed boats here. Now there are five. But the number of people crossing is the same, sometimes even less," he added.