Pushpita Chowdhury, 23, is a final-year student in Dhaka University’s Women and Gender Studies department. She paints, travels whenever she can, runs an online shop called Paint Your Thoughts, and dreams of becoming a successful businesswoman. Fine art was her first choice, but she enrolled in her father’s preferred subject. Still, she paints love into every sari, bag, and piece of cloth she touches.
Like any student, Pushpita leaves home alone for classes, returns in the afternoon, studies, laughs with friends, sips tea under the trees, and sometimes has khichuri from the campus canteen. Nothing about her energy stands out—until one sees her automatic wheelchair.
The reporter met her after a class on the fifth floor of the department. Pushpita pressed the control button on her wheelchair, smiled, and said: “Apu, I am Pushpita. Can we sit and talk somewhere?”
She stopped in front of the elevator and asked the reporter to press the button. They waited eight minutes—no response. They moved to another elevator and waited ten more minutes before it finally opened.
Inside, Pushpita laughed. “This is normal. One day I sat on the fifth floor for three hours. The power went out, and there’s no generator here. A friend stayed for a while but had to leave. I didn’t know what to do. Back then I had a manual wheelchair, and I couldn’t go anywhere without help. Finally, my cousin came and took me downstairs.”
She said that was the first time she understood how many things she would need to ask for. “I was new in Dhaka, scared, and didn’t know whom to tell. A teacher told me, ‘Talk to us, we want to understand your needs.’ After that, I started speaking up. I have friends now who support me.”
Outside the lift, her wheelchair momentarily got stuck. A few students stepped forward to help, but she freed herself before anyone could fully assist.
As she moved down the ramp and toward the library, she said: "I am a social butterfly. I love to travel, but it’s expensive for me.”
Public transport is almost impossible—she would have to be lifted by someone, and someone would have to stay with her. She cannot eat by herself; the strength in her wrists has weakened.
While talking, Pushpita asked: “Apu, can you take money from my bag and buy three khichuris for me?” The reporter stood in line, bought the food, and placed the packet in Pushpita’s hands.
When asked whether she now comes to class alone, she said: “Earlier my cousin or sister brought me every day. Then I asked a friend whose house is near mine to help push my wheelchair. My back strength had decreased. From that day she started taking me—she never let me ask again.”
They walked toward the shade for tea. Pushpita continued: “I always need someone. I can only go to and from the university. If I need to go to a bank, only the one at TSC is accessible. Other banks have no ramps. When I think of going anywhere, I must first think: can I get in?”
For long trips, her father or cousin travels from Tangail to carry her onto the bus. “But none of this stopped my dreams,” she said. “My father wants me to go abroad where wheelchair access is better. But I want to stay here, build a business, and create my own world.”
Her younger sister has moved to Dhaka to support her. “Because I can’t just go out whenever I want.”
When their tea arrived, the reporter balanced Pushpita’s cup on her wheelchair. As they talked, she shared memories of her favourite trips—Delhi being the most enjoyable because “wheelchair facilities were much better.” But within Bangladesh, travel remains limited. “Crossing the road is difficult. Footpaths are uneven. Public transport is not accessible. Even for hospitals, I check whether there is a ramp. Entertainment, shopping malls—everything takes planning. For me, enjoying life is expensive.”
Pushpita was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy in class three. She had struggled with climbing stairs and lifting her ankles since age six or seven. After several rounds of tests in Dhaka and India, the diagnosis remained the same. After SSC, she began using a wheelchair full-time. Now she can’t move her wrists fully and has no waist strength. She has never used public transport alone.
Still, she speaks with calm optimism. Her father’s dream is also hers: to live freely, create art, and grow her business. She wants “a world of my own.”
When the reporter finished her tea, she noticed Pushpita’s cup untouched. “Why aren’t you drinking?” she asked.
Pushpita smiled gently. “Apu, you have to feed me.”
Only then did the reporter understand: this bright, confident young woman—who paints, studies, jokes, and dreams—cannot lift a cup of tea to her lips.
For any university student, dreams come naturally. But for Pushpita, dreaming requires a city that lets her move. A city where ramps exist. Where elevators work. Where roads and buses and banks do not turn her into someone dependent.
She dreams easily. The city does not.
