Dhaka’s streets have acquired an interesting kind of noise: one that beeps, clangs, and occasionally insults your strength in bright red numbers. Yes, some arcade-style boxing machines have taken over the streets, judging everyone’s fists and egos alike.
Take a stroll after dark and you sure will spot small crowds orbiting one of these glowing contraptions. It looks innocent -- until someone smacks it. A fist lands, a bell dings, and suddenly everyone’s either your cheerleader or your savage critic -- laughing, clapping, or smirking while you stew in shame.
So, this is Dhaka’s newest public activity: punching. And when we say punching, we mean proper punching -- the kind with your hands, no gloves, no referees, and no arrests, of course!
Here’s how it works: you pay Tk 20, summon whatever strength remains in your soul (or simply think about your boss or ex) and punch the bag. In return, it judges you. Publicly. Scores range from 200 to 1,200. There is no mercy. If you miss the right spot or miscalculate your swing, the screen flashes a number that announces: this is how weak you are. Your ego takes a direct hit. The crowd sighs. Someone laughs. And suddenly, you feel the overwhelming urge to pay another 20 bucks to redeem your honour.
That’s the genius of it. You don’t lose energy; you pay to lose energy. And then you pay again. It’s addictive in the most Dhaka way possible. One punch is never enough because one punch rarely tells the story you want to hear. The second punch is for dignity. The third is for closure. The fourth is just because someone behind you said, “One more.”
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However, these machines are no longer shy curiosities -- listed on social media for around Tk 1,40,000 -- making them a serious investment for anyone looking to combine a lazy business with public entertainment.
On Manik Mia Avenue, at least four punching machines stand confidently along the edge of the Sangsad Bhaban, as if national frustration finally needed a designated outlet. Dhanmondi Lake has at least two that we could count, watching joggers abandon discipline for drama. Another is around the premises of Central Shaheed Minar. They are now almost everywhere, beeping and blinking, inviting you to hit them. Hard.
On a bad day, earnings might barely scrape Tk 500, but on good days like weekends or festive evenings, Tk 2,000 rolls in easily, all collected from frustrated office workers, curious teens, and anyone who just needs to hit something without consequences. “People come angry,” said the owner of a machine near Dhanmondi Lake. “This anger is good for my business.”
Although boxer machines have existed before, mostly trapped inside air-conditioned, well-behaved shopping malls, and politely ignored between food courts and escalators, Dhaka has now dragged them onto the streets.
Now people line up on the streets. Friends cheer. Strangers become temporary coaches. Everyone has advice: twist your waist, aim lower, hit harder. Yet someone who inevitably declares, “I got this,” proceeds to score a tragic 347.
The beauty of it all is simple: Dhaka has always been a punching bag, absorbing traffic, deadlines, rent, and dust without flinching. Now, for Tk 20, it lets you return the favour, safely and publicly. You swing. The city watches. For a few seconds, nothing hits you back. And in Dhaka, that, just feels like a win!
