Once upon a time (actually not that long ago), someone was looking for a place to rent in Dhaka city. That someone happens to be a female, but that is not relevant to this story because the search for a home for a single anyone, as I hear, is tough regardless of gender in Dhaka city.
But then again, she knew looking for a place as an independent female in Dhaka restricted her to certain areas which are most accustomed to single females living alone. Side note, she had a decent job and paid her own bills.
The search started in the radius of Gulshan and Banani. On a rickshaw she prowled the streets in mid mornings. The first house she found was a decent one and the landlady seemed nice over the phone. However after meeting our girl, the landlady refused. Questions followed: “You are not married?” “What about your parents?” “They let you rent alone just like that?” “You are too young and a risk,” the landlady announced, the door was shut and more homes were to be looked at.
The second possible landlord demanded: “The only males that can come to your place are your father and your brother.” The woman responded: “Neither of them will be visiting me as they are both far away.” The landlord announced: “All guests must come and check-in with us before visiting you.” That also ended there.
After the 15th home viewing, including a few who only rent to foreigners, and by that they mean white and dark-skinned foreigners (it doesn’t matter if you are a British-Bangladeshi or American-Bangladeshi, your skin colour and the word “Bangladeshi” dismisses you from even viewing certain apartments) she found a nice new apartment tucked away in Banani.
The contact on the to-let sign met the girl and asked her a hundred questions. By now, the girl had a whole script memorised, a true script with key points. “I was not raised here, I am here for work, here are my last few pay stubs, and my references.” “You want to a copy of my passport?” “Yes, sure, I can provide that too.”
The last landlord, after calling all references and getting copies of the girl’s driver’s license and passport, agreed to give the girl the place only if she made a six month deposit. The girl tried negotiating and decided to meet her to-be landlord at her office. The landlord showed up half an hour after the appointment time with his nephew who worked at a reputable organisation.
The girl didn’t think much of it and put up with questions such as: “Do you get paid in dollars, or taka?” “Can we have your mother’s phone number?” The girl obliged with the promise of signing the contract soon.
The landlord called her mother but instead of offering the apartment, he sent a proposal for the nephew he had brought for bride-viewing.
After 15 more apartments and landlords, some insults, a thousand questions, blown away by overpriced apartments, then judged as a prostitute, criminal, recluse, and anomaly, she found a home. The landlady, who had lived abroad for some part of her life, never met the girl in person. The whole transaction happened over telephone, and email and transfers and deposits were made, and a new home was set up for a year or two.
There is no point to this story. I know most readers will not be surprised and merely entertained. This is how things work in Dhaka, in Bangladesh. And the question is, our girl, if she was a landlady herself, would she rent out to a single woman or man? Maybe not.
Is the question about being exposed to more trusting cultures where independence is valued, or is it about holding on to our tradition where living alone is still not a fluent idea. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a story, to be repeated over and over again for many years to come.
There is light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel is narrow and the light shifts too often. For now, the girl can think she is blazing new trails, and the landlords who refused to rent to her can believe they are protecting their property and culture. Who is to blame and who is to change? For now? No one.
