Ramshackle homes jut from the banks, seeming to float like the hyacinth clumps the grudging buffalo graze in the murky shallows.
Tiny row boats play chicken with lumbering sand dredgers and cargo ships that hurl themselves heavy-headlong through shuttle-boat crowds.
The markets seethe with life, gory with guts, fish-flapping, as people heave and heft something close to a living by sheer will from earth and air.
To outsiders’ eyes hard work in bright shades looks almost beautiful, almost more lovely than art.
Everyone is hoping something a little bit better. Aren’t we all?
Dhaka is known as the city of rickshaws and they line the streets like honour guards trooping the clatter of every colour.
They stud dusty nights with dangling candle lantern lights and the irreverance of horns and honks. They are the blood beat.