I know it is the era of a cashless economy, and in Dhaka, like elsewhere, plastic money and electronic transfers underpin and replace physical cash. Yet have you ever been truly cashless in Dhaka -- forgetting your wallet at home and, on top of that, having no savvy mobile wallet to save the day? I have, many times, though my network of crisis managers has always bailed me out.
I’ve been teased and scolded for clinging to the outdated habit of stuffing my kitty purse with soiled, dirty notes. Friends joke that cash makes me look old-fashioned in a city rushing toward QR codes. “Why not just tap your card or scan bKash like everyone else?” they ask.
Well, first, money in my bag makes me feel secure and smug. I’ve even instructed my help team to keep at least a Tk 500 note tucked away for any emergency I stumble into. Ironically, they use electronic transfers for everything -- the cash is just for me.
When I run out, I call my bKash person -- my grocer -- who pays off instantly while I continue shopping for unimportant things. My bKash is just a phone call away, while everyone else lives in their cell. It doesn’t make much of a difference.
Younger cousins, tech‑savvy friends, and the urban crowd I mix with equate cash with inconvenience. They turn up their noses if I pull out a wad of notes at a café or shop. Yet I must confess, the cashless economy has its merits: digital payments are faster, cleaner, more modern.
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Simply put, when you use a card to pay bills, buy coffee, or book flights, that swipe or tap initiates the purchase. Then the transfer network finishes the job, moving money safely to the merchant. The card is the spark; the network is the machinery. Systems like NPSB, IBFT, BEFTN, or mobile wallets such as bKash and Nagad do the heavy lifting, making digital payments in Dhaka smooth and secure.
This modernisation is all good -- except for a few old pigeons like me who prefer the straightforward, hands‑on feel of money. For decades, cash was the unquestioned medium of trust: tangible, familiar, easy to handle without passwords or apps. Now apps, ATMs, and QR codes demand new literacy, and the fear of pressing the wrong button or losing money makes me uneasy.
I’ve been overcharged, wrongly charged, even tricked into giving my PIN. It took days of banking bureaucracy to get the money back. No wonder I still love my tiny ancient coin purse, given to me by my mother. A small, embroidered bag with a metal rim and kiss clasp, it snaps open with a satisfying click. The sound of coins inside thrills me. Notes and coins carry a sense of control and certainty that digital transactions do not.
Old timers like me meet the cashless economy with skepticism. We grew up in a world where cash ruled, and now we’re reluctantly giving in to the curious cashless world, moving farther from our comfort zone. Pensions, utility bills, and remittances now flow through bKash, Nagad, or bank transfers, leaving Dhaka’s old generation little choice but to adapt. Acceptance comes more from necessity than enthusiasm.
Digital literacy gaps intimidate us, and suspicion lingers. The evolution of being cashless in Dhaka should be an easy, patient changeover. In my case, my crisis team pays my restaurant bills, books cinema tickets, and clears outstanding dues while I enjoy old Hindi songs. Later, I repay them in cash from my almirah drawer, where my silver key rings always hang -- though I wonder how much longer I can remain this old‑world self.
