Elevator politics of Dhaka: The unseen hierarchy in vertical transit

There was a time Dhaka only sprawled horizontally, stubbornly, like a city allergic to the sky. But then, when the land grew scarce, Dhaka simply looked up and thought -- why not the sky? So now, it climbs.

Buildings shoot up like they're competing in a race to touch the clouds, staircases are quietly written off as relics, and elevators have become the new vertical vehicles of survival.

And, because this is Dhaka, the elevator was never going to be just a machine. It is politics on pulleys. Not only do we rage on the roads; we now fume in little steel boxes too.

All of Dhaka's Class System, in a Box with a Button

Yes! Step into a lift, and you've already entered a miniature model of the city's class system. It's rarely a neutral experience. Who gets in first? Who gets to press the buttons? Who is invisible enough to blend into the corners? In corporate towers, executives glide into air-conditioned cabins while staff wait for the service lift as if queuing for rations. In posh apartments, domestic workers perfect the skill of being there without being there. All of Dhaka's social gymnastics are squeezed into six square feet of metal.

The People We Know Without Knowing

Elevator silence deserves its own study. You know your neighbour's face, their schedule, their floor number, and maybe even the brand of their cologne. And yet, you've never spoken. Both of you stare at the glowing digits as if they're the last great invention of mankind. Somehow, a simple hush inside a lift manages to be louder than traffic outside Bijoy Sharani during rush hour.

The Politics of the First Floor

In Dhaka, time is a rare mineral, mined in seconds. So, shaving half a minute by sneaking into a lift feels like luxury. But there are the mysterious lift shutdowns. Sometimes for hours. Energy-saving? Technical issue? A new form of punishment? Nobody knows, but everyone sweats.

And let's not forget the first-floor residents who faithfully occupy lifts as if climbing one flight of stairs would risk their life expectancy. These are often the same people who ignore the "stand on the right, walk on the left" escalator rule.

The Box You Keep Coming Back To

Ask any Dhaka resident and they'll have a lift horror story—being stuck mid-ride during a blackout, pounding the panic button, calling out for the building guard like a character in a badly written play. The fear is real. But then, like many Dhaka traumas, it is repurposed into humour. "Remember when we spent 25 minutes trapped with that aunty from 3B?" becomes dinner-table folklore.

Dhaka's Oddest Stage for a Brief Humanity

But sometimes, just sometimes, a neighbour who's never once stepped inside your flat might offer a polite nod. A junior might whisper a timid "good morning" to the boss. Students cram in a week's worth of gossip between the ground floor and the fifth. For a few fleeting floors, strangers become co-passengers in life's most awkward intimacy.

The elevator, then, is Dhaka's oddest stage. A box that both reveals and mocks our hierarchies, amplifies silences, breeds grudges, and yet, still allows brief sparks of humanity. The city rises, yes—but it drags all its politics, big and small, up with it.