Arnab
October 10, 2003, 06:39 PM
This in itself is not unusual, especially on the subcontinent where cricket grounds form a natural centre of attention. But Dhaka is different. Like a galleon shipwrecked on a coral reef, the stadium - from the outside at least - has become so incorporated into the daily hustle and bustle, that it is barely recognisable for what it is.
The inner walls have become the home of innumerable electronics shops, with all manner of fancy gadgets for sale. The outer pillars, which prop up the overhanging concrete stands, provide inadequate shelter for some of Dhaka's legions of dispossessed - street children who huddle for warmth and occasionally tug at your sleeve for some spare change, and ragged women who sell thimbles of chai for the same purpose. It is quite a contrast to the more prosaic (post-independence) concrete bowl that makes up the National Hockey stadium, not more than 100 yards down the road.
The competition for space continues on the concourse in front of the ground. Dhaka traffic, which has developed its own peculiar - and highly effective - dynamic, is not concerned with such niceties as brakes and signalling. Instead, it is a free-for-all, in which the horn (a much underused weapon in the West) is often the difference between a stunning overtaking manoeuvre and a messy pile-up. The concourse, though, is the domain of Dhaka's signature sight - those wonderfully decorated bicycle rickshaws, which flutter in and out of each other's paths like giant (tinkling) butterflies.
It hardly seems justifiable, in a city where land comes at such a premium, that such a large area can be put aside for playing. But, on a non-match day at least, the sanctity of the ground is maintained with the minimum of effort, even though entry is as easy as walking into one of those Sony television shops. All that stood between the ground and the tunnel to the pitch was a lathi-bearing security guard who couldn't have been more than 14 years old. He sized me up for barely an instant, before ushering me through with a confused shrug.
I don't think I have read such candid, clear description of Dhaka even in Deshi Newspapers. :)
The inner walls have become the home of innumerable electronics shops, with all manner of fancy gadgets for sale. The outer pillars, which prop up the overhanging concrete stands, provide inadequate shelter for some of Dhaka's legions of dispossessed - street children who huddle for warmth and occasionally tug at your sleeve for some spare change, and ragged women who sell thimbles of chai for the same purpose. It is quite a contrast to the more prosaic (post-independence) concrete bowl that makes up the National Hockey stadium, not more than 100 yards down the road.
The competition for space continues on the concourse in front of the ground. Dhaka traffic, which has developed its own peculiar - and highly effective - dynamic, is not concerned with such niceties as brakes and signalling. Instead, it is a free-for-all, in which the horn (a much underused weapon in the West) is often the difference between a stunning overtaking manoeuvre and a messy pile-up. The concourse, though, is the domain of Dhaka's signature sight - those wonderfully decorated bicycle rickshaws, which flutter in and out of each other's paths like giant (tinkling) butterflies.
It hardly seems justifiable, in a city where land comes at such a premium, that such a large area can be put aside for playing. But, on a non-match day at least, the sanctity of the ground is maintained with the minimum of effort, even though entry is as easy as walking into one of those Sony television shops. All that stood between the ground and the tunnel to the pitch was a lathi-bearing security guard who couldn't have been more than 14 years old. He sized me up for barely an instant, before ushering me through with a confused shrug.
I don't think I have read such candid, clear description of Dhaka even in Deshi Newspapers. :)