The furry anarchists of Dhaka

Ever noticed how every neighbourhood in Dhaka seems to have one thing in common? Wherever you go in this city, you're almost always bound to run into a cat. Not the pampered ones with collars, nor the Instagram-ready breeds. I mean the real, streetwise Dhaka cats.

You're likely to encounter them everywhere. They follow no rules, and answer to no one. And yet, somehow, they are the most permanent residents of this city.

No, Dhaka hasn't turned into Istanbul. Not yet. There are no slow-motion cat documentaries or city-sponsored feeding corners here yet. Dhaka is still Dhaka -- chaotic, impatient, unsentimental at times. But somehow, it makes room for its cats. Not out of kindness, perhaps, but out of sheer inevitability. A cup of leftover milk here, a discarded fishbone there -- Dhaka's love for its cats is more reluctant. Yet, this messy coexistence feels very Dhaka; an equation between irritation and tenderness.

The cats here are unapologetic rebels! They cross "No Entry" signs without hesitation. They nap on "Do Not Sit" walls as if those warnings were just polite suggestions. Rooftops, car bonnets, half-built buildings -- they claim it all -- not with claws or chaos, but with a single, slow, perfectly confident yawn. And somehow, the city just lets them get away with it.

Occasionally, kind people try to "help" them with rescue attempts, but the city cats perhaps do not crave adoption. They're content being polite guests. They'll take your food, maybe even purr, but they'll leave before you can name them. Commitment isn't their style. Freedom is.

They're furry anarchists; just the cute kind. While we get stuck in traffic, they stroll past our cars. While we hunt for housing, they nap on someone's porch. In a city obsessed with walls, gates, and boundaries, they're the only ones still moving freely, still claiming space without apology.

There's an orange cat I often see near Banani. She walks right past the guard, ignores the sign that says "Private Property," and sits under the pastry display, as if waiting for her order. No one ever chases her away. She belongs to no one, yet she belongs everywhere.

Dhaka has grown more hostile to everyone -- the rent, the rush, the relentless constructions, the CCTV cameras always watching, recording, and policing. But the cats? They remain unbothered. They slip through it all, reminding us that not every inch of space needs to be owned or named. They nap through noise, survive on scraps, and somehow make it look poetic. Maybe that's why we tolerate them -- or secretly admire them.

Perhaps, in them, we see a kind of freedom that Dhaka once had before it became obsessed with permission and paperwork. While developers flatten trees and pave ponds, the cats still find sunlit corners to stretch in. While we humans argue about ownership, they simply take it.

Their rebellion is elegant. No slogans, no drama, just presence. A kind of soft occupation.

If anything, they've figured Dhaka out better than we have. They live without rules, yet with perfect rhythm. And in their quiet rebellion lies something we've forgotten; ease, audacity and grace. Maybe that's why we secretly envy them.

Because deep down, every Dhakaite wishes they too could walk past the guards, ignore the horns and traffic, and find a little sunlight to nap in -- no schedule, no permission, no care in the world. Just existing without owning anything, yet claiming everything, like a little cat