24 hours in Mansur Miah's Basti

In a dark 10-by-8 feet room, Jahangir Alam, his wife Sathi and their eight year old daughter Zeba are woken up by their neighbours. A few of them seem to be arguing outside, their voices piercing through the thin walls of the rusted tin shed shanty. It’s a weekday in October, outside the sun is slowly rising. 

The family lives in Mansur Miah’s Basti, a part of the haphazardly growing informal settlement in Beribadh Hazaribagh of Dhaka that houses around 300 people in 60 rooms. They live close to the Buringa, a river that runs through Bangaldesh's capital. Their room is sparsely furnished: the family shares a double-mattress on the floor, next to it a second-hand steel shelf is propped up to the wall and an old table fills the entrance. The rent costs the family 1,800 taka (around 14 euros) per month. Most of their neighbours are rickshaw drivers, hawkers or housemaids. Jahangir and Sathi run a grocery shop close to their home, that they rent from their landlord. They have lived here for three years. 

Sathi begins her day first, at 6:00 am. Outside, crows are cawing, the smell of a nearby waste disposal fills the air. She makes her way to the queue for the toilet. There are 10 bathrooms for all of the residents. Even though the nearest bathroom is close to their room, Sathi has to wait 30 minutes until it's her turn. To pass the time, she and the others start chatting about their children and family disputes. One of their neighbours is having an extramarital affair, someone whispers. 

By then the sun rises, dipping the houses in a faint orange. Back home, Sathi helps Zeba get ready for school. The eight-year-old attends a madrassa – a seminary-like school for which Jahangir pays 2,000 taka, about 15 euros per month: “She can remain there for the majority of the day and will get a free lunch and afternoon snacks, as well as a clean bed for a nap in the afternoon” Sathi explains. She walks Zeba to school, then heads to their shop to open it. It's the familys only source of income. Business is still slow, most of their customers won’t arrive until later. 

For 45-year-old Jahangir and Sathi, 37, life in the slum is very different to the one they once lived in: Jahangir used to be an overseas worker in Oman for more than 20 years, where he managed a construction firm and a shop. During the pandemic the family was forced to move back home to Bangladesh because the harsh lockdowns put them in debt. The Ministry of Expatriates’ Welfare and Overseas Employment recorded that around five hundred thousand Bangladeshi overseas workers came back home because of the pandemic from March 2020 to June 2021. Many of them ended up in Dhaka. And most of them, like Jahangir and Sathi, weren't eligible for government assistance.

They aren’t the only newcomers to the city in recent years: Bangladesh is experiencing rapid urbanization. According to data from the United Nations Development Programme Dhaka's slum population increased by 20 percent from 2010 to 2020. Every year more than 400,000 people come to Dhaka, most of them internal migrants fleeing from the effects of climate change. Bangladesh is repeatedly hit by extreme heatwaves, tropical cyclones and floods. As a large part of the country is only a few meters above sea level, a fifth of the country's surface area is at risk of being permanently flooded. 

Settling into their new home was difficult for the family. Sathi says she often feels helpless, but  is determined to adapt. With the help of her cousin, the couple moved into the rented room in Mansur Miah’s Basti after they came back to the city. Their landlord offered them a tin-shed space to open up a shop. At first, Jahangir sold locally recycled plastic toys but, because business wasn’t good, he transitioned to selling groceries with the help of a local NGO. They make a modest but relatively steady income. 

Dhaka's slum population increased by 20 percent from 2010 to 2020

On this October morning, Sathi and Zeba have long left when Janghir gets up. He is still tired from the previous night because he came home late from work yesterday. Yawning, he walks to the nearby toilet, where it’s less busy now. He freshens up and then goes home to have a simple breakfast. He usually eats baked goods with tea in the morning. Today he opts for panta instead, boiled, soaked rice with green chili and salt; a popular breakfast for families who don't have a fridge at home. At around 11 AM he walks to the shop to take over from his wife. 

Meanwhile Sathi goes to the shared kitchen to cook. Today, she is preparing rice with lentils and vegetables that she will serve for lunch and dinner. The small room is filled with people and firewood smoke when she arrives. The walls are covered in black soot. An older man is cooking Gorur chhat (resedues of processed beef), while a group of women is preparing a rice-lentil hotchpotch, bitter gourd fry, spinach and rice. The different foods mix in the air, creating a peculiar smell. Because there isn’t a lot of room, quarrels among the cooks are common. Just as for the toilets, Sathi has to wait for her turn to access the stoves that are propped up on the ground. Like everyone else she uses firewood to cook, a ressource that has become more expensive: “We cannot afford enough fuel to cook more than once a day,” Sathi says. To cook, she requires a minimum 80 kg of dry wood  per month, costing 1,200 taka (approximatly nine euros). 

Once lunch is ready, she carries it back to the shop. There, she and Jahangir have lunch together, sitting on a bench outside of their shop.  In the busy life of the couple, it is here where they find time to catch up with one another, have a chat and drink tea. “It’s refreshing,” Jahangir says with a smile. Back home they have little privacy: “We don’t even quarrel or argue because we know that our neighbours would hear us,” Jahangir says.  

Throughout recentt years, their shop has become a place for the community. In the afternoon, customers trickle in, many of whom live nearby. They step in for cheap snacks or small talk. Most are exhausted from the day and seek a moment’s rest and warmth in the LED-lit shop. Some sit on the benches in the back, watching Bangla and Hindi movies on a small television propped up on a table. Others bet on online ludo games. 

At around 8:00 pm, Sathi leaves the shop to pick Zeba up from school and bring her back home. Eating her food, the young girl talks excitedly about her best friend Fatema who lives nearby and how she had fish for lunch today. 

While the others get ready for bed, Jahangir keeps his shop open late into the night, usually until 2:00-3:00 AM hoping to attract late night customers. He is worried about his business. Seven days earlier, he stocked up with 100 eggs. So far, only two have been sold. 

For 45-year-old Jahangir and Sathi, 37, it is tough to adjust to life in the slum

Outside of the shop, a group of young men has gathered, talking loudly about a recent police raid at a nearby slum. Jahangir knows that they use the proximity to the shop to connect their phones to the WiFi to play online games but he can’t collect internet fees from them or do much about them. “Often they deny paying for food or tea but I don’t want to anger them,” he says with a sigh. But it’s not just that. 

Janghir also fears that the road leading to the shops keeps people from his business. “Why would people wade through sewage to buy a few things?” he asks. Their limited customer base, made up mostly of their neighbours, barely brings in enough income to sustain the shop. 

At around 3 AM, Jahangir closes his shop, and walks back to the room in the pitch black. Back home, he has the leftover lentils and rice and goes to sleep next to Zeba and Sathi.