Dug-up roads and a divide too deep

For Dhaka residents, waking up one day as the monsoon season starts and finding out that roads in their lanes have been dug up for development works is nothing new.

It's almost a complementary relationship; a vicious cycle, going around and around in a maddening loop, bringing horrors and hassles, which aren't unfamiliar, but neither ever welcomed.

A few weeks back, I too suffered the same. The usual hustle and bustle of city life notched up by a few degrees as an army of workers began to break the asphalt layers and dig up the roads with hammers, shovels, jackhammers and other heavy types of machinery.

Two or three weeks into the tribulation that didn't show signs of receding anytime soon, I noticed how everyone – from the wealthy elites, the middle class with limited earnings to the hand-to-mouth ones – all living in the same area segregated by the fineness of the building they reside in, had in a way learned to live with it.

The rich would have their cars driven to the mouth of the lane as they would carefully traverse the muddy and pipe riddle path, often with an umbrella in one hand and a briefcase or their children and their school bags in another, or it would be the chauffeurs who would run along ahead with the bags, tiffin boxes and other items that would be carried in the car while the owner or their family members would carefully walk behind some time later and quickly get on the cars.

The less solvent ones – living at the end edge of the lane, would often start an argument with the rickshaw-puller or the ridesharing motorcyclist about how they are being dropped off far from their doorstep, and demand concession.

Even less economically fortunate ones would just do what they always did – walk – careful that they don't accidentally bump into the gaffer group. 

However, amid all this, the local children, who would play on the lanes – cricket, football, cycling and whatever else they feel like channelling their inner innocence through – remained somewhat the same with the liturgy of afternoon playtime.

These children appeared careless about the deep trench-like pipeline installation works – so did their parents.

The dug-up roads highlighted yet another socioeconomic deep divide.

One sweltering summer afternoon as I was returning home back from the office, I noticed some child labourers working in the dug-up roads- all the while children almost the same age as them were carelessly playing on the other side.

A football rolled down near one of the child labourers; the children asked him to kick it to them. The boy did, and then went on to play a little with them, only to be abruptly stopped as a thought seemed to come to his mind, which left a deep furrow on his brow, his face suddenly young yet burdened with an old tiredness. It seemed he knew that his supervisor was watching, his peers were watching, and he was a worker, not a child. 

He kicked the ball back – feebly – not sure as if not to be too strong that the hit might hurt the playing children, or to channel that old tiredness straggling his young body, mind and whatever remains of the soul.

The playgroup gets their football back, and their laughter and shouts of excitement fill the air, providing a stark contrast to the gritty atmosphere surrounding the young workers - oblivious to their struggles.

Caught in a momentary lapse, as the burdened child labourer obliged the request and kicked the football back to the group of carefree children, amid the tiredness, there was also a spark of innocence as he briefly contemplated joining them in their play, relishing the joy of being a child. 

For that fleeting instance, the weight of his responsibilities is lifted, and he experiences a taste of the carefree world that should rightfully belong to him.

However, this respite is abruptly halted as a thought enters his mind, etching a deep furrow on his brow and leaving a mark of premature exhaustion on his face. The watchful gaze of his supervisor and the scrutiny of his peers remind him of his true identity – that he is a worker, not a child. In that fleeting moment of unbridled happiness, the reality of his existence dawns upon him with a crushing weight. He must return to his labour – not for the sake of a better life, but to endure and survive the one he is forced to exist in.

In the bustling lanes of our city, life goes on at its own pace. While some children play carelessly, enjoying the freedom of childhood, there exists a parallel reality that often goes unnoticed. 

Amidst the laughter and joy, some young souls are forced to carry the weight of responsibility long before their time – at times entailing poignant glimpses of childhood camaraderie being abruptly halted by the struggle for survival.

The presence of child labourers in our society is a reflection of deeper socio-economic disparities. Poverty, lack of education, and limited opportunities force these young souls into arduous work at an age where they should be nurtured and educated. This perpetuates a cycle of exploitation and denies them the chance to develop their full potential.

The juxtaposition of child labourers with the carefree children playing nearby highlights the stark realities faced by the former. 

The fleeting moment of innocence, tainted by the burden of responsibility, serves as a poignant reminder of the systemic issues that perpetuate child labour. 

As a society, we have a moral obligation to protect the rights and well-being of our children, ensuring that they are allowed to grow and thrive without the weight of adulthood prematurely thrust upon them. 

Only by acknowledging and addressing this issue can we create a world where all children are given the opportunity to dream, play, and realise their full potential.

Touseful Islam. Sketch: TBS

The author is a journalist