The man with a scarf around his neck lifted the corners of his mouth in a defiant smile

The man wore a hat and a scarf draped around his neck, flashing a smile that showed his teeth. It was a pleasant enough smile—refreshing, even—but there was something theatrical about it, as if it might just as easily be read as a defiant grin. The effect was heightened by the serious-looking young man standing just behind him, whose solemn expression made the front man’s smile appear almost conspiratorial, as though he were plotting some mischief. Of course, he wasn’t. But in Dhaka—the capital of Bangladesh, a sprawling metropolis where survival often depends on quick wits—it was tempting to imagine that even a smile could be a kind of strategy.

This city, with its population of more than ten million, is one of South Asia’s great strongholds of chaos. Rickshaw pullers call out to passing pedestrians, street vendors fry sweets in sizzling oil, and creaking old boats crowd the riverside, ferrying masses of people back and forth across the water. In such a setting, it hardly seems strange that human expressions should acquire a touch of performance. A smile here is less an emblem of leisure than a tool for survival.

When I recall that man’s face, it lingers far more vividly than any UNESCO-listed monument. Guidebooks may tout Dhaka’s architectural treasures, but for me, the city’s essence was distilled into that one moment on the street: a stranger meeting my camera with a practiced grin. Then again, perhaps I was overthinking it. Maybe he smiled simply because someone pointed a lens in his direction.