Inside the Life of a Gachhi in Bangladesh

Before the sun rises, while the world sleeps, Rafiq hangs from a rope 40 feet above the ground. No harness, no safety net, no branches to hold. Just the rough, uneven trunk of a date palm tree, a small knife in his hand, and years of practice guiding every move. One wrong cut and the tree is damaged. One loose grip, he falls. But this is not a sport. This is not a stunt filmed for thrill. This is how Rafiq feeds his family. This is how his father fed his, and his grandfather before him. Every winter, across the villages of Bangladesh, thousands of men like Rafiq climb these trees in darkness. They are called gachis, the date palm sap collectors. They harvest something you cannot buy from any factory. Pure, golden, natural jaggery. The sweetest product of the coldest nights. This is not just a profession. It is a way of life, passed down through generations. Today, we follow one man through that life, from the first climb in darkness to the last cup of tea at night. This is Rafiq's story. This is a gachi's day. In the bitter cold, when most people are wrapped in blankets and fast asleep, Rafiq's day begins. He wakes up, sits beside the tube well, and brushes his teeth. With icy water, he washes his face, hands, and feet. Then he dries himself with a towel. Pushing away sleep and tiredness, Rafiq ties plastic containers to his bicycle and sets out toward his date palm trees. Darkness still covers everything. The moon is still shining. From a distance, the call for Fajr prayer echoes across the fields. He ties a small torchlight to the front of his bicycle and pushes it forward into the cold. This is the coldest week of the year. The kind of cold that seeps into bones and makes every breath visible. But for a gachi, this is also the most precious time when the sap runs sweetest. After walking some distance, he parks the bicycle by the roadside and carries a container toward his trees. From here, Rafiq's work begins. Near the trees, earthen pots are kept ready. Rafiq washes them one by one. Then, holding several pots in both hands, he moves toward the date palms. He ties a rope around his waist, hangs the pots behind him, and fixes a small torch on his head. Like a skilled squirrel, he climbs the rough trunk and reaches the top. There, he takes down the pot filled with last night's sap and replaces it with a fresh one. Tree after tree, he repeats the same work. Slowly, the light of dawn begins to appear. Birds gather on the branches, drawn by the sweetness. Ignoring the cold, human movement slowly begins across the village. On the road, Rafiq meets other gachis. Some are taking sap down from trees, and others are heading home with their harvest. Being a gachi is not a separate profession. The ordinary farmers of this area become gachis when winter arrives. Rafiq owns 80 date palm trees scattered across different areas. With the help of his two nephews, he collects sap from all of them. Once finished, Rafiq ties the containers to his bicycle and begins the journey back home. The date palm tree has a single, unbranched trunk with green, spiky leaves at the top. Throughout the year, the tree produces food through photosynthesis, storing much of it as starch for winter. When cold weather arrives, special enzymes convert this starch back into sugar. This sugar mixes with water rising from the roots, forming the sweet sap. From November to February, these four months mark the season. The colder the weather, the sweeter the sap. A single tree can yield 2 to 6 litres daily, nearly 150 litres over the season. But there is no room for delay. Once the sun rises, fermentation begins, the sap turns sour. Time is everything. Rafiq has known this since childhood. For him, this is not seasonal labour. It is his life's work. Back home, Rafiq and his nephew wash the large tin boiling pan and place it on the clay stove. The sap is strained through a large strainer and poured in. From now on, Rafiq's wife will take care of this, because it is time to take yesterday's jaggery to market. With his father, a van driver, Rafiq loads the containers and sets off. The market is already crowded. Noise, shouting and bargaining fill the air as buyers surround them the moment the van stops. The price of jaggery ranges between 200 and 300 taka per kilogram. After some bargaining, the wholesaler counts out Rafiq's payment. With money in hand and an empty basket, Rafiq walks into the market. Despite the bustling activity and immediate cash flow, the income from jaggery sales is often just enough to cover the family's basic needs and does not always stretch throughout the year. This makes each season critical for Rafiq and his family. He enters a small roadside hotel for breakfast. Rafiq ordered roti, eggs and lentils. After finishing the meal, he completes the entire week's shopping – vegetables, daily necessities and fish. He also buys some fruit for his daughter. The market is far from home, so everything must be done at once. Back at home, Rafiq's wife has already lit the stove. To make jaggery, the sap must be boiled continuously for two to three hours. Slowly, while stirring constantly, the thin liquid thickens. Their five-year-old daughter comes over, stirring the jaggery with her small hands, adding straw to the fire alongside her friend. When Rafiq returns, he checks the sap carefully, adds a small amount of soybean oil and begins to stir. Before long, the colour changes. The liquid thickens into golden jaggery. At just the right moment, he removes the pot from the stove. His wife and mother line up small clay moulds on the veranda. Plastic sheets are spread over each one. Rafiq pours the jaggery liquid over the moulds, sprinkling seeds saved from the previous day. Within a short while, the liquid sets. With the whole family's help, each piece is lifted and placed on a cloth. This jaggery is completely natural, no artificial colours, no adulteration. After his midday meal, Rafiq picks up his tools, lime water, rope and sharp cutting knives. He heads back to the trees. There lies a village covered with hundreds of thousands of date palms. Vast open fields stretching as far as the eye can see. At dawn and dusk, flocks of birds fly from one tree to another. These trees are the very livelihood of the people here. Rafiq ties a rope around his waist and climbs. Using sharp scissors, he carefully slices a V-shape into the trunk so the sap can flow. This cut is crucial, too shallow and the sap will not come. Too deep and the tree is damaged. This is work that comes only with experience. Once he finishes cutting, he washes the cut areas with lime water, a natural cleanser that removes germs and keeps the sap safe. Tree after tree, he repeats the process. Clay pots hang from the trunks, ready to fill with sweet sap by tomorrow morning. Cutting the date palms is extremely risky. There are no branches to hold. The trunks are uneven, footholds uncertain. One has to hang from a rope to work. A single fall would be fatal. Yet, generation after generation, this has been their livelihood. Today, the temperature has dropped to its lowest point this season. And in this bitter cold lies a secret. The harsher the winter, the sweeter the reward. The trees know. The gachis know. This is the week they have been waiting for. Meanwhile, at home, life continues. Rafiq's wife cuts fish bought from the market while dogs, cats and chickens gather around. His mother cuts straw for their two cows. Their home is simple, walls of brick, bamboo and tin decorated with bamboo mats. The furniture is just a cot, a table and a television. There is no luxury. Everything exists only out of necessity. But there is contentment. The crops from the fields are harvested and stored to last the year. Sacks are neatly arranged around the house, filled with the produce that sustains them. By the time Rafiq finishes his work, darkness has almost covered everything. He walks home along the narrow path, washes at the tube well and changes his clothes. All afternoon, his wife and child had been waiting, wondering when Rafiq would return. His little girl sees her father and bursts into a smile. Overjoyed, she runs to him. In the soft light, his wife chops vegetables and prepares khichuri. Father and daughter sit side by side. Beside the stove, they nibble on raw tomatoes and carrots for fun, chatting and playing little games. In these few moments, Rafiq seems to forget all the fatigue of the day. Once the cooking is done, his wife carries the khichuri inside. The little girl, with her tiny hands, eats the steaming food. In this simple meal, they find happiness. Their needs are few, yet contentment fills them. After dinner, Rafiq steps out one last time. Carrying a small torch, he walks along the dark road to the tea stall. After a whole day's work, one cup of tea. For many, this is the only break. He asks the shopkeeper for tea. Water is poured from the kettle, and soon a cup is in his hand. Sipping quietly, he sits lost in thought. Once finished, he does not linger. There is no time to sit idle. Tomorrow, he must rise again at dawn. Rafiq lights his torch and walks back home. This is his routine. Every day, every night, always preparing for the next day. He is not alone. In this village, in this region, the lives of people in this profession follow the same rhythm. Date palm sap, jaggery, and hard work. On these three things, the lives of countless families depend. No one counts the gachas. No records track their falls. They exist between night and day. Between tradition and a changing world. But as long as winter arrives, as long as the trees give sap, they will climb. And somewhere, a five-year-old girl watches her father return each evening, learning without words what it means to provide, to endure, to carry forward a way of life. This is the story of the gachis. This is the taste of sweetness earned before dawn, one tree at a time.