The Emptied Footpaths of Mirpur 10: Hawkers, City Memory, and a Story Filed Under the Wrong Name

When the evening light spills across the roundabout at Mirpur 10, the biggest change is not something you see—it is the absence that speaks loudest.

A week ago, that footpath carried stacks of cabbage, rows of worn shoes, tea kettles, and small bulbs strung on mobile-charger wire. When those little bulbs lit together, the city felt as though one part of it had not yet gone to sleep. Today there is only swept, clean concrete. An old shopkeeper standing nearby said quietly, 'They took everything away at dawn.' He made no complaint; he simply stated the fact, as though it were as regular as the hands of a clock.

Mirpur 10 is one of Dhaka's best-known transport hubs. Buses, CNGs and rickshaws race out from here in every direction. And close by runs the road that leads toward the Sher-e-Bangla National Cricket Stadium. That geographic proximity is where the story takes a strange turn—because this article once found its way onto a cricket list, even though there is not a drop of cricket inside it.

I have spent many years moving through the cities of this region, watching the alleys beside stadiums, the dawn markets, the match-day crowds. My experience tells me that a city's character is understood not through its stadium but through its footpaths. Who trades there, who walks there, who cannot walk there—the answers to these questions reveal whom the city was built for.

So the removal of hawkers from the footpaths of Mirpur 10 is, to me, no small news item. It is a city looking into its own mirror—a moment when public space, livelihood and law become visibly entangled.

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Context: One Footpath, Three Questions

To understand this, one must first know what Dhaka North City Corporation (DNCC) does. DNCC is the municipal administrative body for the northern part of Dhaka—roads, drains, lighting, sanitation and the maintenance of public space are in its hands. Keeping footpaths free of encroachment is among its routine duties.

The problem is that in Dhaka a footpath is not merely a place to walk. It is an economy. Thousands of people run small businesses there, much of it informal—not registered on paper. Many of these hawkers come from the city's poorest quarters. To them the footpath is not just the side of a road; it is the morning's income, a child's school fee, the night's rice.

So when an authority speaks of 'freeing the footpaths', it is really trying to fix two different things at once: first, the pedestrian's right; second, the fate of an informal economy. Balancing the two is not easy, and in the history of Bangladesh's cities that balance has often been imperfect.

The Mirpur 10 episode is a living picture of exactly this tension. Here DNCC ran a drive, demolished illegal structures, cleared the footpath. Yet in neighbouring Mirpur 1 and Tolarbagh, hawkers still occupy. In other words, the drive was not complete—it was selective. Inside that inequality lies the biggest question of all: who decides which footpath is cleared first, and which is left for later?

Here a subtle thing becomes visible. To a municipal authority, clearing footpaths is not merely about hygiene; it is a decisive display—visible proof that 'we are working'. And the best place for visible proof is a place everyone sees. Mirpur 10 is exactly such a place—busy, familiar, impossible to miss.

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Core Analysis: The Architecture of a Drive

There are several layers to the event, and examining each one reveals why such drives rarely endure.

The first layer is physical removal. Illegal structures were torn down, goods piled on the footpath were taken away. The scene around the roundabout changed. This layer is the fastest, the most visible, and therefore the most attractive to the news media. But it is also the most temporary. A heap of brick and wood can be removed in a day; the tendency to return for the sake of livelihood cannot.

The second layer is resistance. During the drive, hawkers reportedly attacked police and city corporation staff. This fact matters, because it shows the removal was not peaceful. Why not? Because those being removed were given nothing in place of what was taken. When a person loses the only source of their livelihood, their reaction turns violent. This is not an explanation of a crime; it is a description of a social rule.

The third layer is geographic inequality. Mirpur 10 is clear, but Mirpur 1 and Tolarbagh are still occupied. This inequality is not accidental. Within the limited resources and time of any drive, an authority works selectively. But this has a side-effect that is often overlooked: if hawkers leave Mirpur 10, they do not vanish—they move toward Mirpur 1 or Tolarbagh. In other words, one area's 'cleanliness' often returns as the neighbouring area's 'encroachment'. This is the oldest lesson of encroachment management.

Together these three layers show that the Mirpur 10 drive is not a solution; it is a phase. The question of a city's public space is cyclical—occupation, eviction, reoccupation, re-eviction. Each cycle ends in the exhaustion of the authority, and begins again under the pressure of livelihood.

Here the most important factual caution appears. Whether the drive is permanent, no one can say at this moment. Because the photographs were taken on a single day, and a footpath's fate is decided weeks later—when the light goes out and the cameras leave.

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The Counter-Side: The Face Behind the Number

One thing must be stated plainly here. The main characters of this event are not athletes. Here DNCC, the police, and unnamed hawkers—these three entities are everything. There is no team, no match, no player, no league.

Yet something strange happened. This event found its way onto a 'cricket_asia' list. Why?

The answer is probably very simple: the word 'Mirpur'. That single geographic token evokes the stadium. But the proximity of a word is not the proximity of a subject. Mirpur 10 is a road junction, not a pitch. Between the cabbage on the footpath and a cricket six there is no connection, save a postcode.

This misclassification actually teaches a large lesson. In the age of information we often forget that a word does not carry its own meaning—it carries its context. A geographic name cannot tell you the subject, just as living beside a stadium does not make someone understand cricket.

And here the real story lies hidden. The story is not about cricket; it is about the city's ordinary people—those who push a cart at dawn, stand in the sun at noon to trade, and return home at dusk. Their names are not in history, they do not appear on a scoreboard, yet they are the ones who keep the city running.

If I truly wish to speak in cricket's language, then in this city's unseen XI stand the cleaner who sweeps the footpath before dawn; the traffic-signal operator soaked in sweat in the heat; the small tea-seller who returns the next day even after his kettle is removed, because he has no other option. No one knows the name of this XI, but every day's game is played by them.

One more thing must be remembered here. Removing hawkers is never merely a question of 'hygiene'. It is a question of livelihood. Every eviction in an informal economy means a child's schooling cut short, a medicine unbought. So when an authority wins applause for 'free footpaths', some muffled voices are lost in the sound of that applause.

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The Contrarian Angle: The Question No One Wants to Ask

Now I come to the place where the familiar reading dissolves into dust.

Everyone is saying Mirpur 10 has become clean—this is development. The city has improved; pedestrians can walk. This reading is true, and it should be acknowledged first. If the footpath really is free of encroachment, then those who walk, especially the elderly and the disabled, do gain real relief.

But the next question is: at whose cost is this relief? And is this cost a permanent solution, or a temporary relocation?

This is where my deepest doubt lies. If a drive merely pushes people from one place to another, then the real problem of public space is not solved—it simply disappears from one place and appears in another. If Mirpur 10's displaced hawkers sit down in Tolarbagh, then Mirpur 10's numbers will look beautiful, but the city's total encroachment will remain unchanged.

This is why, in encroachment management, the destination matters more than the number. How many were removed can make one happy; but without seeing where they went, only half the truth is known.

And the second contrary truth is this: this event is not a cricket event, and admitting so is itself a matter of factual honesty. When a municipal drive lands on a list like 'cricket_asia', it shows that our classification machines are oversensitive to geographic names. This is a data-quality warning that can contaminate future analysis.

The third and subtlest truth is this: an empty footpath looks clean, but empty space is not the same as orderly space. An orderly public space is one where a stable coexistence is built between those who walk and those who trade—without illegal occupation, but also without destroyed livelihood. Building that coexistence requires planning, alternative markets, micro-credit, rehabilitation. A bulldozer alone does not solve this problem; it merely relocates it.

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The City's Invisible Labour: Who Cleans, Who Sees

One class is almost always absent from this discussion—those who carry out the drive. The city corporation worker, the cleaner, the police officer—they rise in the morning and come, stand in the cold dawn or the hot sun, and sometimes face resistance. Their work is not easy, and their praise is scant.

To understand a city's health I always look in two directions: at the places that are clean, and at the people who clean them. No one looks at the second. If the person who sweeps the road before dawn falls ill, the city turns filthy in a single day. Yet no one remembers their name.

This story of silent labour is what I consider most important, because it leads us to an old habit—we celebrate visible outcomes and forget invisible labour. Before celebrating Mirpur 10's clean footpath, the labour behind it should be remembered.

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Factual Honesty: What the Numbers Say, and Don't

Now let us look at a few specific facts that frame this event.

DNCC has removed hawkers from the footpaths of the Mirpur 10 area—this is certain. During the drive, hawkers attacked police and city corporation staff—this too is certain. Illegal structures were demolished. But in Mirpur 1 and Tolarbagh hawkers still occupy—this fact says the most about how broad the drive really was. The photographs were taken the day before publication, meaning the event is recent and timely.

What these facts suggest is this: the drive was local, partial, and met with resistance. These are not sporting results; they are the results of municipal administration. There is no match score here, so there is no room to count a 'win' or a 'loss'. There is only a small chapter in a city's administrative history.

I am a man long accustomed to watching games, and so I carry a habit—dividing results quickly into victory or defeat. But this event teaches me that not every result fits that frame. An emptied footpath is not a victory, and a full one is not a defeat—these are moments in an ongoing argument.

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A Lesson in Real Metrics: What Can and Cannot Be Measured

If we truly wish to analyse this drive, we must choose the right metrics. Just as strike rate or economy rate is measured in cricket, here we should measure a few things: how many feet of footpath were freed, how many hawkers were displaced, how many received rehabilitation, and how many returned to the same place six months later.

The last metric is the most important, and the least measured. Because the rate of return tells us whether the drive was a solution or a temporary pause. In the world of urban planning this is a familiar truth—the success of an eviction depends on rehabilitation, not on removal.

There is another practical caution here. If, after removing hawkers, no alternative income is arranged, then encroachment simply changes location. Goods that leave Mirpur 10 will settle in Mirpur 1, and a month later a headline will read, 'Encroachment rises in Mirpur 1'. This is not a failure; it is a predictable outcome.

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A New Perspective for the Reader

One new lesson can be drawn from this event, and it is often missed: the question of public space is really a question of labour. We see the footpath as a place, but it is in fact a workplace. Unless urban planning reserves specific space for informal workers, every eviction will be only a temporary solution.

This perspective also applies inside a cricket ground. Those who sell goods beside a stadium, who control crowds outside it, who check tickets—they are all part of an informal workforce without whom a match day cannot function. Yet their story never reaches a television broadcast.

If I look toward Mirpur 10, I see the shadow of a cricket stadium—but beneath that shadow stand people who have never held a cricket bat. Their story is the real one, and it is the one that should be written.

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Toward the Future: An Unfinished Question

So what comes after this event?

There are three possible paths, and all three are equally possible.

The first is the most disappointing: the drive lasts only a few weeks. Gradually the hawkers return, just as they have returned elsewhere. Six months later the footpath is as full as before, and no one remembers the drive.

The second is in between: Mirpur 10 stays clear, but the other areas remain unchanged. This is an uneven yet visible outcome—one part of the city changes, the rest does not.

The third is the most hopeful: the Mirpur 10 model spreads to other areas, and with it comes a genuine plan for rehabilitation. Here lies the real key to success—not merely removal, but an alternative.

My hope is for the second or the third. But my experience tells me the most likely path is the first—unless a rehabilitation plan is attached.

And here is the final word: a city is civilised only when it keeps room even for its weakest resident—on the footpath, in the market, and in the heart. The emptied footpath of Mirpur 10 throws exactly that question at us.

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A Memory, Frozen

Evening falls. The roundabout at Mirpur 10 slowly empties, the buses race to their destinations, and on the footpath a single broken tea kettle stands alone—someone left it behind, forgot to pick it up.

When tomorrow's dawn breaks, who knows, perhaps someone will come and lift the kettle again, make tea again, wake the city again. Because a city cannot survive without its residents, and residents cannot survive without their livelihood.

This story is not cricket's; it is the city's. And a city's story never ends—it merely waits for the next morning.