Dhaka�s women ash-sellers fight losing battle against detergents

Life, to them, is like the burden of ashes they carry on their heads. They are a ubiquitous feature of Dhaka’s city life: women carrying sacks of ash on their heads and pots of tin containing dried powder in their hands, walking down the alleyways, crying: “Chhai nebe go?” (“Do you want to buy some ash?”) Sometimes they have to walk at least 20km a day before they can make a sale. They have to walk with the heavy loads on their heads under a blazing sun, fighting the diesel fumes laced with sulphur, methane and dust—the pollution from the vehicles that pass them by as they eke out their living, selling each potful of ash for a meagre Tk. 10. Majeda Begum and Soummyatara, both in their early forties, set out every morning from their shanty after a breakfast of hot rice with a bit of lentil, a green chilly or two, and a paste of dried fish or mashed potato, whichever is available, after sending their children to school or to work in the nearby tanneries.
It is all in a day’s work for them to pick up a gunny sack, an empty can of milk powder and a bottle of water, and go to the nearest rice mill where they boil paddy at Kamrangirchar, a sprawling suburb of the city. Vendors of ash, such as Majeda and Soummyatara, live alongside rickshaw-drivers, old newspaper sellers, scrap dealers, garments factory and tannery workers, housemaids and beggars, and other riff-raff who deal in drugs. Both live in Sylhet Bazar—the locality of people hailing from greater Sylhet—as they had their roots in that district. Majeda came 13 years ago from Habiganj and Soummyatara from Sylhet. Both have a similar tale to narrate. Both were married to rickshaw drivers. Majeda’s husband, Rafiqul Islam, from Rangpur, was killed under the wheels of a recklessly driven truck while coming home down the Embankment Road, popularly known as Bheri Bund. Majeda was left all alone in the world with a toddler boy. Soummyatara—with her four children—has to battle for survival, after her husband was crippled in an accident.
They are left with no choice but to fend for themselves. Nowadays, Majeda’s son supplements her income, working at the tanneries—which is seasonal—or pushing the rickshaw vans of neighbours. Earlier, she had to carry him on one arm and put the sack of ash on his head and the discarded dried milk can in his hand, walking around Mohammadpur, Dhanmondi, or even Elephant Road and Azimpur. Initially she found the task arduous. But the money at the end of the day was not small—Tk. 200 from an investment of Tk. 100 to Tk. 150. Now her margin of return has come down to Tk. 200.
But it helps her pay her house rent and food, including payment for an occasional snack or tea in the afternoon. When her shift stretches into the evening, at the end of the day she pines for a hot cup of tea with a butter bun, a luxury she can indulge in, given the backbreaking work throughout her day.
Soummyatara has to look after her four children, who all go to school. She wants to ensure that their lives would be different from hers. But the number of clients is dwindling day by day, under the advertising blitz of multinationals, which offer a wide variety of dish cleaners at “affordable prices”. To this, Majeda has a simple answer. The city’s poor, especially those living in the slums or low-income neighbourhoods like Mohammadpur, Rayerbazar and Hazaribagh, will continue to buy the ash. Not only to clean their dirty pots and pans, but also to hold on tightly to the live catfish when they gut these, as these are slippery to hold.  Also, housewives who are fond of roof or terrace gardens need ash to ward off insects from vegetable plants, she explained with a smile. Somehow, she is certain, they will manage to survive their daily ordeal, selling ash.

Dhaka�s women ash-sellers fight losing battle against detergents

Life, to them, is like the burden of ashes they carry on their heads. They are a ubiquitous feature of Dhakas city life: women carrying sacks of ash on their heads and pots of tin containing dried powder in their hands, walking down the alleyways, crying: Chhai nebe go? (Do you want to buy some ash?) Sometimes they have to walk at least 20km a day before they can make a sale. They have to walk with the heavy loads on their heads under a blazing sun, fighting the diesel fumes laced with sulphur, methane and dustthe pollution from the vehicles that pass them by as they eke out their living, selling each potful of ash for a meagre Tk. 10. Majeda Begum and Soummyatara, both in their early forties, set out every morning from their shanty after a breakfast of hot rice with a bit of lentil, a green chilly or two, and a paste of dried fish or mashed potato, whichever is available, after sending their children to school or to work in the nearby tanneries. It is all in a days work for them to pick up a gunny sack, an empty can of milk powder and a bottle of water, and go to the nearest rice mill where they boil paddy at Kamrangirchar, a sprawling suburb of the city. Vendors of ash, such as Majeda and Soummyatara, live alongside rickshaw-drivers, old newspaper sellers, scrap dealers, garments factory and tannery workers, housemaids and beggars, and other riff-raff who deal in drugs. Both live in Sylhet Bazarthe locality of people hailing from greater Sylhetas they had their roots in that district. Majeda came 13 years ago from Habiganj and Soummyatara from Sylhet. Both have a similar tale to narrate. Both were married to rickshaw drivers. Majedas husband, Rafiqul Islam, from Rangpur, was killed under the wheels of a recklessly driven truck while coming home down the Embankment Road, popularly known as Bheri Bund. Majeda was left all alone in the world with a toddler boy. Soummyatarawith her four childrenhas to battle for survival, after her husband was crippled in an accident. They are left with no choice but to fend for themselves. Nowadays, Majedas son supplements her income, working at the tannerieswhich is seasonalor pushing the rickshaw vans of neighbours. Earlier, she had to carry him on one arm and put the sack of ash on his head and the discarded dried milk can in his hand, walking around Mohammadpur, Dhanmondi, or even Elephant Road and Azimpur. Initially she found the task arduous. But the money at the end of the day was not smallTk. 200 from an investment of Tk. 100 to Tk. 150. Now her margin of return has come down to Tk. 200. But it helps her pay her house rent and food, including payment for an occasional snack or tea in the afternoon. When her shift stretches into the evening, at the end of the day she pines for a hot cup of tea with a butter bun, a luxury she can indulge in, given the backbreaking work throughout her day. Soummyatara has to look after her four children, who all go to school. She wants to ensure that their lives would be different from hers. But the number of clients is dwindling day by day, under the advertising blitz of multinationals, which offer a wide variety of dish cleaners at affordable prices. To this, Majeda has a simple answer. The citys poor, especially those living in the slums or low-income neighbourhoods like Mohammadpur, Rayerbazar and Hazaribagh, will continue to buy the ash. Not only to clean their dirty pots and pans, but also to hold on tightly to the live catfish when they gut these, as these are slippery to hold. Also, housewives who are fond of roof or terrace gardens need ash to ward off insects from vegetable plants, she explained with a smile. Somehow, she is certain, they will manage to survive their daily ordeal, selling ash.