The nightcrawlers of Dhaka

It was 2am in the morning, but Kamalapur Railway Station was not asleep. Under the yellow glow of lamp lights, I saw a porter sitting with a faded red turban wrapped around his head and a heavy-duty rope slung over his shoulder.

"I once had a family and farmland in Netrokona. My wife passed away three years ago. I married off both of my sons and transferred all my property to them. I thought they would take care of me," Abdul Momin, the porter, told me. 

They turned their backs on him. 

"My sons said there was no place for me. I was kicked out of the very land I had worked on for decades. My house, my fields, everything I earned with my own hands — gone," he said.

With no education and nothing left to his name, Momin came to Dhaka. "I heard there was work here. I had nowhere else to go. I began working as a porter, the station floor serves as my bed," he added.

According to him, nearly 275 porters work at Kamalapur, operating in three main divisions. The most experienced ones, like him, are stationed in the inward and parcel sections — loading and unloading goods from the mail trains. 

About 45 porters currently work in the parcel section and another 17 in the inward section, according to the Kamalapur Railway Parcel Department. The rest, assigned to passenger trains, carry luggage across platforms for daily commuters. It is backbreaking and often a thankless job, but it keeps the station running.

By 3am, outside, the city had totally changed. The hustle and sound of traffic had been replaced by a stillness. 

I took a rickshaw. Rickshaw-puller Hridoy Mridha, probably in his late 20s, said he was from Feni and had been in Dhaka since he was 15.

"My father died when I was 13. Then my mother married another man. He beat me every day. A year later, she had a baby and started blaming me for all her problems, so I ran away. I got on a train and never looked back," he said.

He only works at night. "The fare is higher, and the roads are clearer. Yes, it's risky. But I'm just a poor guy. I've got nothing but a mobile phone to lose," he said.

The monsoon months are the hardest. "The roads flood. I can't go out. Sometimes I don't earn for days," Hridoy added.

By the time I got down at Panthapath, the clock was inching toward 3:30am. As I crossed the street, a sharp, putrid odour hit my nose. I turned and saw two men pushing a city corporation trash van, their clothes soaked with the stench of the day's waste.

Their names were Kashem and Abdur Rahman.

"Yes, we stink, but because we stink, your houses and colonies stay clean, " Kashem said before I could even ask. 

Rahman nodded. "We've been doing this together for three years. We work at night because if we did this during the day, people would complain. The roads would be blocked. It's better this way."

Kashem was from Mymensingh. "My village is quiet. Green. But there's no work. I came here four years ago. At first, I worked as a day labourer. Then a friend introduced me to this job. It's not glamorous, but it feeds my family," he added.

"People think this is the job of the desperate. But it's also the job of the dependable. I start at 10pm and work till around 5am in the morning. Do you know how many people scold us if we're late? But no one ever says thank you," Rahman said. 

Kashem added that sometimes, if they sit down to rest for five minutes, people act like they are lazy. 

"But we walk miles every night, lifting sacks that smell like rot, breathing it all in. We have no masks, no gloves. Just our hands. When I get sick. When my skin itches for days from touching something rotten, I think: Who else will do it? And what else will I do? We're too poor to dream of a better life," he said.

A little further down the road, I stopped for tea near Dhanmondi 32. A boy — no older than 15 — was carrying a big flask of tea. He told me his name was Alif. I looked at my watch: 3:45am.

"My father usually sells tea at night. My brother and I handle the daytime. But my father is sick, so I'm working his shift," he said. "Someone has to earn. We barely eat hand to mouth. Studying is a luxury we can't afford."

Alif poured me a cup of tea, handed it over with a forced smile, and picked up his kettle. "I'm heading to the hospital now. There are always people there who want tea," he said, and started walking. 

Before leaving he said, "People look at me like I'm a nuisance. Like I'm in their way. But all I want is to help my family. One day, maybe, I'll open a proper shop — with lights, a signboard, maybe even chairs."

As I neared my house, I noticed a man standing close to the entrance, lighting a cigarette.

It was 4am. He looked up and asked the time. When I asked who he was, he said that his name was Milon, and that he drove a passenger bus for a private call centre.

"I pick up night shift workers from different parts of Dhaka around 10pm, then at 4am, when their shift ends, I drive them back to their homes," he explained.

He was taking a short break before the return leg of his journey. "You'd be surprised how many people work while the city sleeps," Milon added.

"Six nights a week, I start in the evening and sometimes don't finish until sunrise. I've been doing this for nearly five years. I have gotten used to the silence. The city is a different beast at night — calmer, more honest, but also dangerous," he said.

"I have a daughter. She's in class three. She wants to be a doctor. Every time I feel tired, I remember that. I never had the chance to study, but she will. Dhaka doesn't sleep, brother, it just pretends to," he added.

The final person I met before going home was Jahangir Alam, the security guard of our building. He had been watching me talk to Milon.

As I approached the gate, he gently warned, "Sir, don't talk to strangers this late at night. It's not safe. People can be thugs, muggers. They might harm you."

I nodded and smiled. "That's why you're here, isn't it? Our guardian."

He gave a tired chuckle. "People think we security guards just sit and sleep. But we watch everything. We hear things others miss. Drunken fights, doors opening at odd hours, strange footsteps — every night has a story," he said.

I asked if he ever felt afraid. 

"There was a time I did. Once, I caught a man trying to scale the back wall. He had a knife. I shouted and he ran. But my hands were shaking for the rest of the night. But now I've made peace with the fear. At night, this city is not safe. But it is what it is," he said.