TANGENTSBy Ihtisham Kabir
Water <i>Women </i>
Behind Taslima's smile, a hard life. Photo: Ihtisham Kabir
I see them whenever I visit Shakhari Bazar, old Dhaka. Wearing bright saris, they gather around tubewells, filling Kolshis with water. The shiny aluminium Kolshis have their own queue next to the tubewells. After a Kolshi is filled, its owner lifts it, places it on her waist, hooks her arm around its neck, and walks off. The next Kolshi takes its turn. Who is she? Where is she going? Why? I stop by and chat with the water women looking for answers. In some neighbourhoods of old Dhaka, the water supply delivers unclean water: murky or smelly, unfit for cooking or drinking. The supply just a block or two away may be fresh, however. The tubewells connect to water lines at these fresh water points. Water women pump up clean water and deliver to flats in the unclean water zone. Some customers boil the water; others don't. Some have larger families and require several Kolshis every day. Demand is high in the summer, but in rainy season, many customers resort to using rain water. The women have to work 8-10 hours per day, but hours are unpredictable because the water supply may be interrupted. Long interruptions mean waiting until night to deliver their water. I wait until a woman fills her Kolshi and then try picking it up. It weighs a good 15-20 kg. No part of the work seems easy, yet I have to ask: “What is the hardest part of this job? Filling it, or taking it to your destination?” “Bhaiya, the hardest part is climbing up with it,” she replies. Indeed, payment is based on how high the women have to climb. For delivering to a flat on the 5th or 6th floor, they get paid 200-250 Taka per month per Kolshi. Ground floor flats pay about 100 Taka. “Do you get anything besides money? Snacks, for example?” I ask. This strikes a sad chord. “Who wants to show kindness these days, Bhaiya?” asks one of them. The women all live across the Buriganga River in Kamrangir Char. They commute by boat (5 taka roundtrip) or rickshaw-van over the bridge (10 taka.) They are all ages, including an ancient one who makes a show of ignoring me. “Seen many reporters and my pictures in the paper. Didn't help one bit,” she grumbles. I ask another woman her name. She smiles. “My name? My name is known all over the world, you have heard it many times. It is Nur Jahan.” The others I meet are Kohinoor, Jyotsna, Taslima, and Sanowara. Taslima is the youngest woman working today. Someone mentions her child. “So you have one child?” I ask. “Yes, it is hard enough raising just one!” she replies. Her sister babysits her daughter, a six year old called Nupur. Despite the hard work, they are quick to help each other with Kolshis and readily accommodate neighbours filling their drinking bottles at the tubewell. Their camaraderie, banter and laughter stay with me long after I leave.
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