Traffic Light

Chapter 2: Visions

Dr Jeffrey Hoover, Managing Director of the Deep Core Bionics Initiative, stands on a stage of a colossal hall in the pulsing heart of New York, some seven thousand and eight hundred miles away from where our story initially begins. A middle aged Caucasian male, warm smile on his face, pointer in hand and a large gold Rolex strapped low on his left wrist, Dr Hoover is in the midst of sharing his insights on the development of prosthetics production.

He’s addressing an audience of roughly three hundred respectable listeners about the potential derived from the incorporation of modern day technology in the economic bearing on the prosthetic market. The recent ubiquity of 3D printers and innovations in prosthetic design, manufacturing and distribution holds a powerful solution that is offered to the millions of people dealing the limb loss all across the world. There are approximately two hundred thousand amputations performed per year in the United States alone. As it stands, the current price for prosthetics could range between five thousand to fifty thousand dollars, which is almost considered a luxury as far as the average populace is concerned.

Take into account the numerous factors of prosthetic implementation, like the process itself taking anywhere from several weeks to months or the personalised nature of prosthetics which means that every wearer will need a custom-made model that fits the needs and preferences of the receiver. Take into account the economic viability of a family with a child in need of a prosthetic and how children are prone to breaking things, even with the average prosthetic model lifespan being up to five years of more. Consider the frequent replacements and the additional costs that could burden the family. Calculating the price of the prosthetic and these subsequent replacements could conclude that the total lifetime cost would place a considerable amount of financial strain on a family’s finances and insurance companies will most likely never cover that annual cost.

Now come the solutions. In terms of pricing, 3D printing capabilities are making prosthetic production more affordable and more easily attainable for the every-day man, woman or child. With some 3D prosthetics available for less than two hundred dollars, the possibility of granting anybody the ability to design and print a prosthetic limb at home or within their local vicinity has already become a reality. This democratisation of prosthetic design and creation has enabled millions of people around the world to reap the benefits of the new manufacturing technology.

Deep Core Bionics is in fact, one of the leading open-source prosthetics initiatives. Providing 3D printer customisation and creation to every customer is only half of the vision, the creation of some of the most sophisticated designs ever seen in prosthetic functionality is the other half of that vision. The ability to use an extendable arm that allows the receiver to effortlessly reach down and pick up items off the floor, additional features including the 3D modelling of the person’s natural limb for a more precisely built model and fortified material strength are all included in the company’s assortment of capabilities.

Innovative new technological developments have enabled Deep Core to introduce new components to the prosthetic, like propulsion systems, integrated sensors and sophisticated algorithms that work in unison for a more automated and natural movement cycle of the joint. Predictive movement capabilities allow receivers to enjoy holistic and easier control without putting too much effort into thinking about the device. The team has been hard at work to incorporate more fluidity in mimicking natural movements so users can assimilate their new limb with their bodies and their brains through direct natural touch input systems.

Aesthetics are also a key focal point to the Deep Core Bionics’ latest project. Dr Hoover points his clicker and an image appears on screen of a smooth, black forearm with a clear silicone cover for a hand resembling a smartphone case. Underneath the rubbery skin, skeletal robotic fingers form the most complex area of the prosthetic. It’s light, only amounting to a couple of pounds and is attached firmly to the stub with suction.

The audience begins to light up with soft murmurs, impressed executives smiling at each other, gesturing nods of approval. In the crowd quietly sits a man shrouded by the darkness of the back portion of the hall, with only the lower portion of his dark blue suited torso revealed by the light. Visible slightly past the sleeves of his silver cufflink donned shirt, is the exact same prosthetic hand being shown on the screen at that moment, metallic fingers curling slightly in an inward motion to form a fist.

Dr Hoover continues with his pitch, pointing out that the increasing compatibility of 3D printers with many high grade materials like lightweight titanium have allowed the developers to amplify durability and strength by three fold the normal models, thus effectively prolonging the product lifespan with an added service of maintenance and reparations to purchased prosthetics.

Who would have ever imagined that it would have come to a point where the aesthetics, functionality, comfort and added value of prosthetics would have been optimised so greatly that losing a limb almost seems like an enviable ordeal. The hall erupts with a controlled and short burst of laughter at Dr Hoover’s notion. The man with the smooth black prosthetic hand is no longer at his seat, he isn’t anywhere to be seen in the hall. Without noticing the vacant seat, Dr Hoover resumes his presentation.

From “i-limbs” to artificial organs, technology has led us by the hand toward a future of explosive innovation in the ever expanding field of prosthetics, among many other aspects of our lives throughout various industries. Technology is the staff of the wizard, enabling human dreams to turn into social realities. At the rate of companies like Deep Care Bionics’ rapid progression, stepping confidently into the future shouldn’t be an issue for us as a civilization and as a productive species in search of better solutions to a better world.

The audience applauds as Dr Jeffrey Hoover extends an arm up to thank them and begins walking off stage. Beyond the hall of some three hundred executives, experts and interested third parties, lies an ongoing convention. A fully air-conditioned premise with thousands of guests, plenty of refreshments and an endless queue of concurrent presentations just like the one Dr Hoover had wrapped up. He walks past panelists, CEO’s and organisers, shaking their hands and receiving warm congratulations as humbly as he can. Making his way towards the VIP room, he opens the door and is greeted by another middle aged man, dressed almost exactly like him. Inside the room he sits cross legged, placing his sleek, black suitcase on top of the long meeting table, fixing his tie. Inside this room, he discusses with this middle aged man, the possible joint venturing of Deep Core Bionics.

He is told by this middle aged man whose dress code closely resembles his own, what he already knows. He is told that the Global Robotic Prosthetics Market is expected to grow at a CAGR of 10.5%, that factors such as an increasing geriatric population, rising R&D activities, increasing occurrences of diabetes and vascular disorders as well as the rapidly advancing technology – the same of which he just spoke of in the hall – are all fuelling the market with a phenomenal dosage of growth. Dr Hoover is then told by this middle aged gentleman that he and his associate want in on the action. He and his associate see the potential of such an acquisition. He pushes over a thin folder of documents for Dr Hoover to have a look at. The middle aged gentleman thinks that Dr Hoover will be interested in the great plan of things to come and his interest may be peaked even further by what he and his associate have to offer.

-

Some seven thousand eight hundred miles away, I opened my eyes, woken up by the violent coughing of my mother in the other corner of the room. Relentless dry coughing that echoed throughout our empty home. I rolled over and asked if she was okay. In between her choking and coughing she mentioned she was fine, she just needed some water. So I groggily stumbled out of my mattress from the floor and searched for our water jug, placed typically at the center of the section where we slept and brought it to her. She took a hold of the handle and chugged it down with a few large gulps. She thanked me and lied back down to doze off, as did I. From there on, whenever I would return from a hard day’s work, she’d either be sitting in the darkness of her room, reading from scripture or sleeping. I began to realise that I hadn’t seen her smile in ages. I started to maybe doubt the decision to have her at home all day and night while I left constantly to participate in society. I probably did not think about what sitting around doing nothing would cause. All the while, I hadn’t really stopped to think about what she experienced on a daily basis, too busy worrying about making enough for us to survive.

To put it mildly, my mother had grown a patch of stormy clouds above her head, which kept her hidden from me. It kept her laughter and smiles, lively nagging and passionate gossiping, her bright soul and array of expressions all hidden away behind a solemn look of either longing or loss. It was around that time that I had remembered her desire to see me go through college and on to a higher education of some sort. I suppose it’s one of the bare wants for a parent to see her child become something more than she ever was and not have to share the same burdens as her or go through the same poverty-oriented situations she had to go through herself. But she needed to understand that life doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes life throws you a crappy hand and we need to do what we must to stay afloat. Still, as I became aware of the fact that my mother was not in good shape, it started to bother me.

In the mornings, my cracker selling partners and I would walk past a highway that led on to a fly-over, underneath this fly-over, a small row of rugged stalls had been set-up. We would have to pass by these rows of shops to cross the highway and get to one of the first districts which we considered as starting points, given that we wouldn’t be passing by the same district on our way back as we took the path on the opposite side of that road.

One of the small stalls under the fly-over caught my attention though. It was a book stall, selling books of various sizes, topics and prices. Funnily enough, while Bengali romance novels and study materials were a bit on the steep side, English written books were dirt cheap, probably based on the fact that these books would be of less value to a populace that didn’t use English as its primary spoken word. I never really had much on me to pay for anything but on this day I did. So I purchased a few English books and an English to Bengali dictionary.

All of the stall’s products were tattered and old, but they were all readable. From there on, I would read. Whenever I had the chance, I’d pull out one of the old English books and flip to random pages, softly mumbling the words of each page most of which I didn’t understand whatsoever. It’s a good thing I had that dictionary, because that became my main source of time-passing. During lunch, or on the walks back home when I didn’t have too many bags to carry and I had a hand free. There wasn’t really any need to look up at where I was walking too often, since by the time we headed back it was late in the night and there weren’t too many cars or people out. I’d hold the dictionary close to my face, using the passing streetlights to show me what word I was on. It was a difficult way of learning, but I did learn quite a bit through this process.

I came back on that first day with the books and opened my pouch to show them to my mother. She seemed confused at first, until I started reading to her. Then, in what seemed like years, a smile emerged on her face. She didn’t know I could speak English, she announced loudly. I told her I didn’t initially, but we learned a little English back in school and I had been using the dictionary to help with the pronunciation. My reading was slow and inconsistent, but it seemed like I had found a way to re-connect with my mother again through this activity. From there on, whenever I came back earlier than expected and my mother was still awake, I’d read to her until she fell asleep. In the mornings, if she had woken up early, she’d remind me to come back early so she can hear me read some more.

While she was folding the laundry, or crushing beans on her cooking board, I’d read to her at night. Slowly but surely, the reading seemed to have rejuvenated her spirit in some way or another. It seemed to remind her that there is still life and there are things left living for. Probably, for the first time in a long while, she could actually look forward to the future. Or maybe, she just needed a little jolt of activity in her daily routine to reanimate her spirit so she could continue moving forward. Either way, the reading worked. It gave me a way back to my mother and it gave my mother a way back to life.

Toushif and his father began taking interest in my obsession with those books as well. They’d tease me at first of course. Reading isn’t exactly the priority for folks like us. Folks like us would usually rather focus on tangible work and practical aspects or applicable skills that would help us along our lives. Reading and writing was for the privileged. It may have been okay to learn a little bit of the basics as a child, but adults were meant to put useless things away and get to work. Nevertheless, Toushif and his father started to ask me about things in English. Their curiosity was instigated, even if they themselves were never really interested in picking up the books and reading, they’d kill time by asking me what an English word for specific things meant and throwing it back at each other for a good laugh. I didn’t mind that they having a little fun with it. It was, after all, just a way to kill time and a way to pull my mother out of that dispiriting pit she was in.

Another reason my mother was so persistent about me continuing my education was probably the fact that as a child I had trouble learning, especially reading. Before they sent me off to school, my parents were slightly concerned about my progress with remembering new words or vocal queues. Whenever they tried to teach me to read or write in Bengali, the characters would either be upside down or the wrong way up. It had taken a bit of intense drilling from my mother, until I could slowly be trained to read and write fairly similarly to the other children my age. The issue was solved rather quickly, but it kept my mother on edge, probably concerned over the fact that I may be a slow learner and wouldn’t be able to pursue higher learning. In any case, I would later find out that there was a possibility that I had a minor case of dyslexia, which I was somehow trained out of by my mother. Dyslexia, was coincidentally a word that I had first learned through that dictionary.

For every page that I’d turn, I would count the amount of times my mother coughed. While I was reciting out loud paragraph after paragraph of an English magazine or old geographic journal, she’d try her best to hold her coughs in but often failed. Face turning purple with every series of loud interruptions. I’d stop for a moment and glance at her with an expression of concern. She’d cover her mouth and shake her hands at me as to gesture that she was fine and I should keep going. At night, while she was asleep, I’d listen intently at her loud wheezing. If it got too severe, I’d either wake her up to get her to drink some more water or I’d gently turn her torso to the side or slowly place my pillow on top of hers so her head was tilted slightly higher than usual and her coughing slowly began to reduce. That is, until the next day.

It was a Thursday I’m quite sure. If my memory hasn’t failed me yet, I remember what day it was when Toushif and his dad were bickering at each other over some matter that I’m not too clear of. It was a stupid argument about something small and forgettable, like how one of the bags had torn or how Toushif had failed to wake his father up earlier. I remember just going through the ropes and selling almost all my bags on that day. I remember Toushif having the worst luck of the three of us. Mr Arif had almost managed to sell all his packets except for one full bag just like me. It was a pretty crowded and bustling Thursday, even during the night. I’m not sure whether it was a public holiday and employees from every company in the Dhaka city centers had decided to take their families out for some fun or whether it was purely coincidence that everyone decided to congregate to every spot we passed by.

Whatever the reason, we were able to sell quite a few packets on that day. We walked back as free men, without too much weight on our backs. Coming up to my home, I noticed that there were still candles lit within our interior. I could see the glistening waves of bright orange. When I entered the home I found my mother, a black lump in the semi-darkness of the night, positioned in an awkward fashion right smack in the center of the room. Beside her, a few jugs had toppled over and the water jug we used to drink from laid broken in pieces, with the wet and glistening liquid spilled across the ground. My mother was lying face against the dusty floor, which immediately raised an alarm, seeing as she almost never sleeps on her tummy. I dropped whatever I was holding and crouched down to call her name, nudging her slightly with each attempt I made to wake her. I realized by now that she was out cold, no matter how violently I shook her. At that point, reality sank in that something was very wrong with my mother.

-

It’s all quite a frantic blur from there on. When survival mode kicks in, your body takes the wheel more so than your brain. Instinctively, I carried my mother out into the street, struggling to keep a grip on her body with my scrawny arms and small stature. The closest neighbor we had, that’s where I scurried off to initially. When they failed to answer my cries for help in front of their home, I started to move from neighbour to neighbour, until eventually they started emerging out from their sandy abodes, bothered by the panicked ruckus outside. A couple of them helped me get her to the main highway to hail down a rickshaw which took nearly half an hour. I remember being absolutely enraged by the fact that no one other than my neighbours bothered to help us, even on a fairly busy street. Cars, trucks, bikes and pedestrians all avoided us like the plague. I remember thinking how cruel people can be, especially to a group or class of people that they can’t relate to.

A poorly lit-nylon coloured waiting room is where I sat for the next few hours. Waiting for any news about my mother, I spent most of the time with my head in my hands, too tired to sit up straight but too worried to doze off. If you asked me then what I thought it was, I wouldn’t have known. If you ask me now what I thought was wrong with her, I would have said lung cancer, because that’s what it was. That’s what she was soon diagnosed with, after a couple of quick scans and quirky procedural checks. Stage 4, inoperable.

If you asked me then what those words meant, I would have told you it was another one of life’s crappy hands being dealt hard and fast. If you asked me now, I would have said it was fate. Back then, I believed only in chaos. Rupturing at the folds, oozing out of the can, unadulterated, relentless chaos that stalks its prey in silence until it finally takes hold of your ankles in the night and pulls you away from everything you’ve ever known or loved. The kind of chaos that you eventually come to embrace and expect. The kind of chaos that takes the form of a devoted mother suffering from lung cancer even though she never smoked a cigarette in her life.

Treatments were available even for severe cases. It consisted mostly of various controlled medication and chemotherapy sessions, all of which cost an arm and a leg. It isn’t the most pleasant experience to sit before a doctor that can very well assume the position you’re in judging by how you look but has an obligation to run through the options with you whether or not you can afford a single thing he’s suggesting to you. My mother resting in the room next to ours, had no idea yet about the news I had just received. She will be discharged not too long from now and it will once again be our move, our single most brutal battle against the incoming barrage of problems, an onslaught of unforeseeable troubles.

I sit there with my eyes fixed to the floor, the doctor stops talking and leans over slightly before his small-statured, unflinching patient’s son and tells him; “Boy, right now you should focus on making her as comfortable as possible. Bring her home and spend some time to make sure she has everything she needs. The bright side is at least now you know, now you can truly prepare yourself and spend as much time with her as you want. At least God has given you this mercy, yes?” I look up at him, then he gives me the strangest smirk, half-filled with an expression of awkward condolence and half-filled with something that’s supposed to make me feel better but only makes me want to not be in his presence.

“Is this what it means to hit rock-bottom?” I’m thinking to myself, over and over again, as I walk blindly through the streets of the medical district. A few miles down the hospital begins to fade away from sight and tears begin to well up in my eyes. I wipe them off messily with the lower part of my tattered gray t-shirt. “Is this what it feels like to hit rock-bottom?” I heard that line for the first-time in an old Western that was playing at a large stall near the outskirts of the South-side from where my father used to work. Some days, as a fairly rare occasion, he’d stop by with the rickshaw and pick me up at night before my bed time.

We’ve drive up through the rusty steel bridge a few miles south from our alleyway. I’d count the pillars of the bridge as they went by. Wind in my hair, big wide smile on my face. We’d scoot along the edge of the bridge, making room for any cars. At the end of that bridge, there’d be that large stall, its lights visible by the time we reached the last pillar. I’d order two pieces of toasted bread and my father would have a black coffee and a cigarette. We’d sit there and talk about small, stupid things. Sometimes, we’d sit in silence and watch something interesting on the small retro looking television hung-up on a frame beside the stall owner’s frying section.

“Is this what it feels like to hit rock-bottom?” My mind is starting to drift now and my teary eyes have dried up. I’ve walked for at least an hour now. Feeling rather strange, like I had just awoken from a sleep-walk. I stopped for a moment and looked at my surroundings. There was nothing much, a small junction in the city. Beeping lights in the distance, a car passing by every 3 minutes or so. The soft sound of barking dogs in the distance. I feel strangely sober, as if I was in a trance for the past hour or so. I began to wander if my mother is conscious back at the hospital yet? I headed back, quickly hurrying through where I came from.

She was awake, she had her hand over her mouth and watery eyes full of fear while the doctor and nurses surrounded her, giving her a thorough rundown of everything they explained to me previously. I stood by the door, just watching as her hand moves from her mouth to her chest, she’s whispered something to them. She asked where her son was. I walk into the room and crash down into her arms. As everyone else begins to leave, she starts apologising to me profusely in a soft crying mumble. I asked her what for. She never replied to that. She just held on to me, gripping tightly at the back of my rugged t-shirt.

-

For days after that, I had to avoid the curious inquiries of the neighbours. Perhaps it was just a matter of time before they discovered what was wrong with my mother. They would speculate and they would poke and prod, but eventually they’d find out one way or another. For a time though, I wanted my mother to fully absorb the situation we were in without having yet another crowd of apologetic guests, offering whatever help they deemed would be useful. It wasn’t a bad thing I suppose, but a little privacy is hard to come by where we live.

Those moments we spent right after the news are tender memories for me. I had manually installed a series of dark curtains made out of gray coloured cloths and covered our home’s entrance as well as any other openings. I’d light a candle and I’d pull out the books from under my mattress, then I would read to her, my mother’s head on my shoulder, eyes closed. I’d recite the various English words I managed to memorise and learn in the span of having the dictionary.

I’d read about the sappy English romance that told a story of a man and a woman, not belonging to the same world but being in love anyway. I’d read whatever I could, whenever I could and through that, I found a way to evade the dreaded chaos that lingered beyond the dark dusty curtains I had fashioned as protection from the outside world for my mother and me. I had found a way to be at peace with the last person I loved in this world. The chaos, the cancer, the costs, they could all wait out there for a little while.

It was not an enjoyable experience, having to show up at Toushif’s home and beg his dad for an increase in commission. They had just increased my commission rates not too long ago, now I’m back with my hands held in front of my face. They’re giving each other awkward stares, then agree to bring it up just a little bit more than I’d expected. It was good enough for me and I thanked them for their kindness. With the slight increase, I would have to work longer hours and visit two extra districts that we didn’t usually go to as they were quite out of the way from out usual routes. This was the arrangement. What else could I do? Maybe a lot of things, maybe not too many, whatever answers you have for me. I was a youngster in a desperate situation, who wasn’t thinking too clearly and wasn’t too smart either.

So I worked, day in-day out. It seemed like my life had simply turned into an endless cycle of working and coming back to see my mother in a coughing, sickly haze. With the increment I had managed to push for, I would be able to keep up with the usual monthly expenses, plus I would be able to purchase a few bottles of medication previously recommended by the doctors. The cheapest products on the pharmaceutical shelf, the least effective yes, but something was better than nothing. I just didn’t have the means to provide better quality of treatments.

Whenever I visited the clinics or pharmacies to stock up on pills, I would see the posters concerning medical treatments from hospitals for cancer patients. The posters would list down the success rates with varying degrees of survival for different stages and types of cancers. I’d head back home after a seemingly endless walk to the medical district and see my mother sitting against the corner of the wall, eyes closed and wheezing loudly. On the worst days I’d see her cough up blood, with a frantic expression on her face, she’d try to hide it from me, clenching her fist to cover her bloodied palm and slowly stumbling out to the well at the back to wash off.

The medication I had been getting her seemed to only be doing a very mild job at reducing the violent coughing, granting her a day or slightly more of peaceful rest before losing its effect again. I wasn’t sure what was more frustrating, the fact that these experts had already begun to treat her like a statistic or the fact that we weren’t granted solutions that were ready made and working well for others. We were just unpermitted bystanders of the wonders of technological progression. The benefits were not for us slum folk.

For us, chaos was our medical advisor, our insurance scheme, our solutions provider. Chaos wore the white jacket of truth, chaos pointed his long reaching pen in our faces and told us where to go or what to do or what would happen next. Any semblance of hope I had, was sometimes replaced by the silent feeling of panic during some of the nights that I’d read to my mother and she’d be half conscious, eyes opened ever so slightly with long dragging wheezes erupting from her. She’d look so helpless, the same woman that playfully drew on these very walls with chalk and watch as I tried to decrypt her whitish mazes, was now in my arms, suffering from a dangerous illness that has claimed a million others before her.

-

The two districts that I agreed to work extra on behalf of Toushif and his father, were some of the most well-kept and beautifully designed areas of sub-urban Dhaka I had ever seen up to that point. The season that I happened to come by may have also helped in its appeal, as the trees planted alongside the well-kept roads seemed to be in full bloom. I would later find out that these trees were red listed as an IUCN threatened species and was known as the Krishnachura flower, otherwise known as royal Poinciana or flamboyant. Strips of bright green, red, yellow and orange were scattered on the healthy looking branches of each tree.

Pavements were sealed in orange bricks. No cigarette stubs, no stench of sewage, no dodgy looking characters walking on the pathways, except me of course. This place didn’t have too many characters looking like me. It was wide, spacious and picturesque, with fresh air running through my hair and on my face. I could probably see why the others left these districts out of their list. To stroll around such a prestigious neighbourhood with tattered clothing and bags full of crackers was an awkward endeavour and at the very least quite an embarrassing task.

A promise is a promise though and I began to make my way around the unfamiliar turf. It was quite a maze, but past every corner there was another surprise, like a small water-fountain placed as a center piece for a quaint little town square, with fancy cafes and eateries flanking it from either side. As I made my move from lot to lot, people stopped talking and started glancing up at me, either with a look of surprise, curiosity, amusement or disgust. By now, the expressions from seated customers of shops did not faze me. I was used to it, yet somehow, this area made me feel like a bright, silly looking thorn that stuck out from a lovely rose. The fact that I was the only cracker-selling i***t in the districts didn’t seem to help either.

Once I had completed my rounds and I felt as if I had tried every section worth going to, I began to leave from the same way I entered. As I was leaving, there was a small car parked at the side of the road that led me to the other less prestigious districts. On top of the car was a young man, fair-skinned with long brown hair tied in a small bun. He sat with legs apart, a small radio playing music of the Spanish sort was placed in between. He seemed to be in the middle of rolling something between his fingers when he looked up at me. Round sunglasses casting a dark reflection of myself back at me, he stared for a moment then gave a big warm smile my way. Feeling rather out of my element and bewildered by the environment, I decided to smile back awkwardly and turn to look ahead as I walked past the district sign and into the large empty street that led outwards.

Soon, strolling into that neighbourhood became slightly easier. It had become a fear quite simply overcome, given the fact that I was a desperate soul and with desperation on your side, many other issues disappear. Every time I did my rounds there though, I very rarely had any luck selling even two packets at a time. This was a larger failure than it sounded, given that the districts were extremely large with an extensive network of residential areas and smaller roads, most of which though were patrolled by security guards who didn’t appreciate non-residence guests on the properties. Almost every time I passed by the district sign to exit the area, the young brown haired man would be there, either on his car or leaning against the wall talking to a group of other sharply-dressed youngsters. He’d never fail to look up at me and smile though, until finally one day as I was passing by and he sat cross legged on his small car watching me. He yelled out to me; “You got balls brother!”

“I’m sorry?” I responded. He repeated his statement, adding on that not too many non-residents would stroll in here. He sees that I think outside the box and I’m good with overcoming nerve-wrecking situations. Those are good qualities to have, according to him. After thanking him, he asks me if he can buy 5 packets, of which I do sell to him and thank him once more. He gives me a wave and pulls out a pen-knife, stabbing one of the packets and sticking his hand in to pull out a handful of crackers. I paused for a moment, then began my long, solo walk back home.

He called himself Jake. Upon asking about his English sounding name, of which he said I pronounced funnily, he mentioned that all the youngsters around here had given themselves English names. This was due to the fact that they could also speak a bit more English than others outside the district. In any case, I asked him what his Bengali name was, the ones his parents gave him. He said it was Ahmed, looking rather embarrassed as he said it. I smiled in confusion. I had never really met someone so ashamed of their own culture that their cheeks actually turned bright red when they had to mention their own name. This was a funny district. Throughout the next few weeks, Jake would follow me around while I did my rounds within his area. He’d stay quite a distance whenever I entered the premise of an eatery or café. Whenever I left, we would regroup at the next street.

He would ask me things and tell me things, about life on the upper-class side. He was impressed that I even knew an inkling of English, his perception of us slum folk was that we could barely even speak our national language properly, let alone learn a secondary tongue. In a rather condescending way, he was right. I told him the reason for my learning of the English language. He seemed rather solemn about my situation and my mother’s illness. He was a rather energetic and expressive guy, but my story seemed to quiet him down some.

Eventually, Jake and I grew pretty close. If time allowed it, he’d bring me to a small place where we could get some drinks after my rounds were done. For a young man that wasn’t much older than I was, Jake seemed to know a lot about things. Up to this point, I never really asked him if he had done much travelling but he seemed to have a very worldly view and just seemed to incorporate instances of travel into his conversation topics, as if it was just a given that flying around the world wasn’t a big deal. It was just something everyone did these days. It was the first time I’d ever been in such a social interaction with someone.

On the platter for Jake’s endless feast of words, there were an assortment of topics he loved to just go on and on about. He loved to talk about beaches. The clearest, most intensely exciting sandy havens across the Maldives or in Bangkok. He’d also like to talk a lot about girls, Russian, Korean, Brazilian or Malaysian girls from all walks of life, from all shapes and sizes. He loved going on in detail about how he met each one of these sweet creatures. He would delve into the mechanics of winning tail, going through every detail with a fine tooth comb about how every single one of those girls began by pleading with him to leave them alone yet all ended up in his bed on the very same night of their constant begging of him to get lost.

He did once try to bring up his views on prostitution, but stopped short of elaborating any further about the brothels in Dhaka and how he had a bittersweet relationship with many of the working girls here, once he saw the expression of my face switch from neutral wander and passive nodding to a straight and low-browed look with lips pursed and eyes focused directly at his. He let his laughter drift off, cleared his throat and continued on his merry way about some other completely non-personal topic that I really did enjoy hearing about, even if it was really quite irrelevant to any of the current problems in my life. I suppose it distracted me slightly from the helplessness that surrounded me once I returned to my lonely, quiet, long walk back home. Back to the reality of things, further away from the wondrous and whimsical adventures of Jake.

Additionally, he’d be able to tell me stories about politics in some other country across the world. About some corruption case of a Prime Minister currently in hot water with the United Nations, or an official that was investigated and found guilty of hoarding money from his people. He could tell me about real-time developments across the world and not just instances of himself spending time in some corner of the world and having a total blast, as he likes to put it.

Of course, there came a point where my good friend Jake turned from a pleasant distraction to a potentially profound solution to all of my problems.

On one of those nights that he’d invite me for drinks at the same quiet café in the corner of one of the smaller roads, he seemed a little bit more off beat than usual. He’d look around the room a little more and at me a little less. He’d drink his beverage a little faster than usual and told his jokes a little quicker than how he’d usually do it. Something was off, he’d make eye contact with me for a slight moment, then glance away at the counter or the outdoor sky. I wasn’t too sure what the problem was, but instead of asking him straight up, I just assumed that he was maybe having a bad day and it was my queue to call it a night. So I gulped down whatever was left of my ice tea and was about to stand when I lowered the jug from my face and noticed him leaning forward, staring at me waiting for me to finish drinking so he could say something.

“Listen, I haven’t exactly been very honest with you.” That was enough to catch my attention. So I sat up straight and waited for whatever was coming next. He tells me that he lied about his entire origination story. Earlier in one of our first sessions in this café, on a different day, he had mentioned that he was from a family of legal specialists. His dad was in charge of a heavyweight law firm and his mother held a high-positioned duty as a judge in one of the grand courts in the country.

Apparently now he’s telling me that it’s all horse crap. He made it all up. Why? Because he wasn’t sure if he could trust me. For what? To reveal his real identity. Turns out, our friend Jake, is Ahmad Bahari. The young son of a cobbler that used to work in the lower districts some twenty kilometres south of where we sit at this very moment. Mr Cobbler then decides one fine day that being a dad is too tough and runs off with a mistress that he met in the city. He had been keeping her a secret from Ahmad and his mother, completely disowning them and leaving his child and wife to fend for themselves.

Now even though Ahmad’s father worked in Dhaka, he and his mother did not. They lived on a plot of land in the outskirts as villagers. They had no choice but to work on the land which had not cultivated sufficient crops to get by for months. He’s struggling, his mother’s struggling for a long while. One day a few men show up in large white trucks. They pull up directly in the center of the village and address all the fathers and sons of the vicinity.

They ask for interested individuals, who may be willing to participate in a couple months work for a monthly salary worth more than they could ever make in a year of working on this cursed land. The men that announce the news themselves, they don’t look to friendly. Ahmad admits that he got a pretty shady vibe from them. What changed Ahmad’s mind about them – apart from the fact that the deal sounded pretty damn good for a boy and his mother that are running out of luck – is the army of workers already recruited from other villagers all standing and sitting in the trucks behind them, obviously all hopeful of what these mysterious men have to offer. So Ahmad signs up on a reflex, a spontaneous decision at a very random time.

Without really being told too directly, Ahmad finds himself faced with the possibility of leaving the country to work overseas, travelling in a ship that’s full of others exactly like him. Towards a country he has never heard of before, except for what he’s told by his employers; that skyscrapers don’t end until the clouds shroud the highest floors, the shopping malls are impossible to cover in one visit and transport infrastructure is one of the most efficient in the world.

The reality of it all was that Ahmad was deathly scared of the fact that it wasn’t going to be what they promised. The thing is though, that it was. He was given a construction job of overseeing easily controlled maneuvering of various machines that moved and lifted crates or heavy objects throughout the site. That was pretty much it. He swears the work he did there was definitely less tiring than the work I do now and by the time he had returned home in a few months, his bank account had more figures in there than he even knew he could count up to.

I’m slouched on the chair, eyes in a slightly wide expression, just listening on to whatever might be coming next. “What do you think of that?” He asked me. “Well, what am I supposed to think of that?” I replied.

Apparently, the reason Jake tells me this is because he likes me and he sees a lot of himself in me. He doesn’t really tell too many people about how he makes his living, but he goes down there every few months a year to top up on the small fortune that he has saved for himself and his family back home. A couple months of factory work for some fancy country’s fancy economy, combined with the currency difference that multiplies your amount in Bangladeshi taka could possibly earn you a lifetime of safety.

It could earn you the return of your mother’s health or the rapid transformation of your dead in the water lifestyle. The more people know about this line of work, the more concerned he gets about keeping his job for the foreseeable future. Ahmad likes me, he wants to help out my cancer-stricken mother, my dreams of higher education that’s currently in the gutter, my financial woes and he says it can all be fixed in a few months.

Instead of heading straight back home this night, Ahmad and I take a quick trip back to his home. We go through the front door and I quickly greet an elderly, which I assume is his mother, on the couch in his large and spacious living room. A colossal sized flat screen television sits mounted on the wall directly under a black minimalist, low-hanging cabinet.

He ushers me into his room, where he shows all the notebooks that he kept during his journeys to and fro. He shows me pictures of him hanging before the terrific city skyline, protective gear, vests and all that good stuff. He’s giving the thumbs up and looks even healthier in the picture than he does now, maybe from a diet he was following. Irrefutable proof also included the contacts of almost a hundred employees that all used to be or still are Jake’s peers. Before I left that night to head back home, he asked me to consider this as a very real and very ready situation for me.

He reminded me not to tell anyone else, not even my mom, about this situation. Apparently, it’s supposed to be against company protocol to recruit if you aren’t a high ranking member of the organization. Since my friend Jake isn’t a high ranker, he can’t recruit. So technically this is something frowned upon by management. He doesn’t care too much about rules anyway. Jake has always tried to live up to the bad boy mentality in life’s situations, having already been influenced by Western cowboy media. Still, he’d like to hold on to this job for as long as he can.

He informs me of one more thing. The men that will be taking care of us when we reach the shores overseas as well as the charging fees for the logistical process and daily accommodation that takes place when relocating will cost me. On top of this, a deposit will be required by me as a way of insuring that they aren’t paying for nothing. Once I reach HQ on the other side, my money will be restored safely with me once again. I ask him about how much they’ll be needing straight up and he tells me the figure. It’s a lot of money, but the number doesn’t even reach a total invoice for the chemo therapy my mom needs every month. Is it doable? Yes. Should I do it? I’m not completely convinced just yet.

I wave at him and just before I walk away, he gives me a short speech that may have tipped the scale for me. He says “This is what the system wants for guys like you and me, to commit to our assigned fates.” I ask him “What system?” He raises his hands up towards his head “This system, the way of the world. It’s all by design, this capitalism thing. It’s how the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. They need struggling slum folk like us to do their bidding. They need us to suffer and stay desperate so they can use us for all the unpleasant, dirty yet absolutely necessary jobs. They need us to have a reason to build society for them and that reason is money. That’s why the hospitals won’t help you, that’s why the people from the higher districts look at you with such disdain. In their hearts they know that a balanced scale is one that does not progress for them.”

I look at him, slightly puzzled by everything he just said. Just before he turned back to open his front door he said to me “I’ve found a way out of this system. I’m giving you the way out too. This loophole will be a way for us to escape our destinies. Leave all this chaos behind.” That was the word he used. As if he was some figment of my imagination or a mind reader that knew exactly what was in my head. He gave me a sharp nod, as if to indicate that he knew he used the right word just then, walking briskly into his home and shutting the door.

The walk home that night seemed longer than usual but I was lost in my own thoughts and the bags of crackers hanging over my back felt weightless as I journeyed deeper into my mind, replaying everything I just learned about my good friend Ahmad Bahari. I’m going back in time to the shelf in his house filled with pictures of him at work. I’m looking at the countless names, numbers and details of other recruited employees. Countless documents verifying the addresses of the company’s offices, news snippets from various sources of company awards and breakthroughs.