The last ride of the day: Going home to catch iftar on metro rail

If you ask anyone what the most irritating aspect of living in Dhaka city is, the answer will be 'traffic.' Accommodating 2,24,78,116 people, Dhaka stands fourth among the most densely populated cities worldwide. The 400-year-old city was not planned to house this many people, and hence, the sprawling mess has become a hellhole for its inhabitants. 

To reduce traffic, the metro rail was introduced to the city in 2022. It has been a blessing for daily commuters, as it allows them to travel at an unprecedented speed, reducing their daily commute to the minimum. And so, as expected, the metro rail is always packed. Now, the fastest transportation mode in an overpopulated city is bound to get overcrowded, so it comes as no surprise. What is mind-boggling is the sheer numbers the metro rail packs during rush hours. 

With Ramadan arriving, office hours have been adjusted to allow employees to reach home before iftar. As most offices are now open till 4:30 pm, from then onwards, all hell breaks loose in metro rail stations. And I, being a daily commuter on the metro rail, am part of this everyday struggle.

The short walk to Shahbagh metro rail station often hides the sheer crowd inside. Upon entering the station, I was greeted by a roaring crowd standing in line to buy tickets. I pushed through the human chain tangled at the counter like a pair of serpents eagerly waiting for their turn, to punch in my MRT pass. It's my only guarantee of ensuring a timely entrance to the paid area inside the station. All around me, eager, anxious and busy faces were hurrying through the gates. There's not a moment to stop and wait; the human wave will push you forward. 

The train was scheduled to arrive in four minutes. In this country, besides death and invigilators pulling away your exam sheets, the metro rail is the only other thing that arrives on time. I can count with my fingers how many times it has been late so far. 

On the platform, it was utter chaos, it looked more like the packed streets near New Market or Gulistan—people everywhere. In front of the doors were herds of people, blocking the path for others. There were sporadic shouts of "Hey, I was here first!" or "Get away from here!" 

I stood behind three people, creating the semblance of a queue. The man beside me barked, "Hey, why are you going ahead of me? I was here first." 

In the good old days, I would have definitely let him go first, but here, in the Shahbagh metro rail station, pleasantries and politeness have left long ago. If I get delayed once, it will be eight more minutes before the next train, and there's no guarantee that the crowd will be any better. 

So, I glanced at him and said, "I saw an empty space, and I stood there. You were standing to the side. Not my fault." 

"So, you won't let me go first?" The man asked menacingly. 

And I replied, "No," before turning my attention back to my phone screen and consuming YouTube shorts. There was a hint of guilt in my mind, but that was it. 

It has become a rule of thumb that before iftar, you will not be able to get on the first train, due to the sheer crowds. It is especially true if you are in stations like the Secretariat, Dhaka University, Shahbagh or Karwan Bazar. So, when I failed to get on the first train, it was nothing unexpected. 

When the doors opened, a vicious mob rushed into the cabins, blocking the ones who were getting off the train. There were loud shouts and mild expletives, and the metro rail doors looked like a scene straight out of a historical movie, like fort defenders trying desperately to hold ground against the onslaught of attackers. 

Two people got into a fight; others pulled them away. An elderly man clung from the door, and everyone around him shouted, "Get off, uncle; you are not going to fit inside." 

Miraculously, he did fit inside. 

The train left but the crowd seemed to increase with every passing moment. The worst sufferers were the female passengers, who had to squeeze themselves between the walls of men. There were constant voices pleading, "Please stand aside" or "Excuse me" as the women tried to go to the reserved area for females. 

A man stood beside me, and as usual, people standing in the queue roared in protest. 

He pleaded, "Bhai, I missed four trains. If I miss this one, my pass will expire." 

So, he got to stand there. When the train came through, the queue quickly dissolved in the ensuing rush. Perhaps our deep mistrust of queues and systems stems from the structural corruption and long-standing history of being left out despite being in the right. So, whenever we get the chance, we try to muscle our way inside, making sure that we get our chance, even at the expense of others. 

When the next train arrived eight minutes later, I braced myself for impact by putting my bag in front of my chest. Last month, such a mob tore my bag's straps when they tried to push through the door, and since then, I have adopted this technique. And a bag in front of my body helps push through the walls of people easier; that was only in hindsight. 

With my back, I pushed the mob behind, as there was not much space there. Again, the ones inside were not happy. They shouted, "Go back!" "Take the next train!" "There's no space!" But hey, this is Bangladesh. People plead with the conductor to get on a bus, then shout at the ones who are trying to do the same. So, their protest means very little. 

It felt like I was being crushed by a truck. Everyone had to get in and no one was willing to give the other space. The brawling could put a rugby bloodbath to shame. Somehow, I was able to get inside, balancing myself by holding the panel above the metro rail door. 

Someone stepped on my left foot, nearly crushing it. I pushed him aside, hoping to relieve my pain by venting my anger at the culprit. But he meekly looked away, ashamed of this unintentional act. I felt embarrassed long after, such was the pressure and atmosphere. 

Thus began the epic metro rail journey to my home, as it happens every day. Every station felt like a battlefield to get air, as shorter people were gasping for air under the armpits of taller ones. And there were vagrant misogynist comments towards the women in the cabin: "They are taking ten men's space. Why don't they get into the female cabin?" 

The sheer contempt some men have towards working women used to surprise me in my earlier days. The feeling waned over time. And the women cowed inside one corner, trying to be invisible from the angry male glares, as if the mere presence of women in this cabin infuriated them. 

Some were sympathetic, letting the women sit. Others, not so much. In no place throughout the journey will you find a shred of compassion or sympathy. The metro rail is the embodiment of Dhaka city itself—fast, cutthroat, harsh and selfish. 

Someone shouted, "People are so unruly, no one listens to any command. One or two people should die to make them understand." 

Again, I spoke back, "Why don't you start by dying first? You seem too comfortable talking about death." 

And some passengers near me backed me up, shouting, "How can you be insensitive?"

And once again, heated conversations followed. It's a common scenario where tiredness and frustration, induced by a lack of food or water on hot days turn men into powderkegs, ready to explode at the slightest spark. 

 "I have always read about population explosions in social science books," said a banker standing beside me. "Now I can see it happening right in front of me." 

"Why? Haven't you ever been to New Market in Ramadan?" I asked back. 

He laughed, and it was one of the few humane moments I have seen on the afternoon metro rails, and I take them every day. 

Close by, a woman was talking to her mother on the phone, assuring her that she would be home before iftar.

And just then, the whole rush gave me a new meaning. People are so desperate to go home because they have family waiting for them for iftar. Even in our rapidly crumbling family fabric, where the incessant rat race has forced us to bare our vicious teeth, we try to make time for family. Iftar is not the food; it is the people. 

Nonetheless, all the rush, the fights and the chaos— are recipes for disaster. And a disaster did occur on 19 March, when an overcrowded metro rail got stuck and the trains were delayed for half an hour, right before iftar. Many people, such as myself, had to go back to break our fast and return home after dark. 

The number of passengers is increasing exponentially. But the metro rail trips are growing at a linear rate. As a result, the exponential growth of passengers cannot be managed by the trains. 

It must be remembered that we, the passengers, are impatient, reckless and careless. We do not follow the rules properly, especially when discipline is needed. So, the authorities must step up to find home-grown solutions, more suitable to our mentality, to relieve the pressure, especially during iftar time.