'Prithibite nei kono bishuddho chakri', this line of Jibananda Das seems a universal life quote for many, including Rakib Sarkar, a twenty-seven-year-old fresh university graduate and already exhausted by life. Every morning he ironed the same sky-blue shirt, rehearsed the same polite answers, and rushed to many offices across Dhaka for an interview, but no job seemed to exist for him.
He stood in countless reception areas with trembling hands, filled out endless forms, and smiled at interview boards that looked right through him. Sometimes he was rejected before he even sat down; sometimes he made it to the final round, only to be dismissed with a gentle nod and the familiar line- "We'll get back to you."
Eventually, they never did.
With time, Rakib's world began to shrink. Friends, relatives avoided him; neighbours threw casual remarks like stones. His father grew silent, his mother prayed more than she spoke.
But the hardest blow came from the one person he thought understood him- Dipa.
Dipa, a girl of 23, Rakib's university junior. They've been in a relationship for more than 3 years. She had once held his hand and said, proudly, "One day we'll stand on our own feet together." And then she stood- just not with him.
She got a wealthy boyfriend. Interestingly, who is familiar with Rakib? They know each other well. And eventually she got married, her hands decorated with henna while Rakib held nothing but another rejection email on his phone.
That night, the city felt unbearably loud. Auto-rickshaw horns, street vendors shouting- everything seemed to mock him. He walked back to his small room in Mirpur, shut the door, and fell onto the bed. There, in the dark, he played Nazrul's songs- songs he had grown up with. So he along with Nazrul complains, saying- 'Khelicho e bishho loye birat shishu anmone…'
He didn't know if he had any left.
Yet somewhere in the drowning silence, a line from Tagore rose in his memory like a faint flame:
"Jodi tor daak shune keu na ashe, tobe ekla cholo re."
Rakib finally sat up with a heavy heart.
He had always written poems in old notebooks- scribbled verses of frustration, loneliness, and longing. He wrote because it helped him breathe. He wrote because it kept him alive. That night he opened a fresh page and wrote until dawn cracked open the sky.
As the moon conspires to love
Love likewise awakens me too,
In the thirsty earth, to get wet..
Yet alas! In this state,
Life does not find way in faith.
Perhaps, O beloved,
You are the one, I love
But my heart does not know it.
By noon, half-awake and hungry, he did something strange. He typed another poem- raw, painful, unpolished and posted it anonymously on a literary page. He expected nothing. He simply needed to release something from inside him.
But the universe has a habit of bending when life bends too far.
Within hours, the poem exploded. Thousands shared it. Someone even messaged the page asking for permission to recite it at an event. Rakib watched the notifications grow like rainfall- steady, relentless, unbelievable.
At midnight, he received a message from an unknown number:
"Whoever you are, I want to meet you. Your writing has something different. See me at 3:30 PM at TSC"
For the first time in months, Rakib felt a warmth spreading inside him- not happiness, not excitement, not exactly anything, but imagination of it.
The next morning, he put on his favorite sky-blue shirt and walked towards TSC. He was unaware of everything. Who's the message sender? What's his/her intention? Rakib was walking through the Shahbagh mor with a kind of trembling calmness, as if his feet knew something his mind didn't. The winter sun rested softly on his shoulders.
Rakib reached TSC at 3:20 PM. The steps were crowded, yet he felt strangely alone- in a good way. His palms were damp. He kept scanning the faces around him, trying to guess who had called him here.
At exactly 3:30 PM, a familiar voice broke his trance.
"Nill?"
Nill is Rakib's nickname. Often his friends make fun with Rakib calling him Blue Government (Nill Sarkar). Rakib replies with smile.
However, Rakib turned sharply. Dipa!
He blinked twice, almost disbelieving. Dipa- his ex, someone who had disappeared quietly from his life, someone who used to read his poems before anyone else did.
She stood there in a simple black kurti, her hair tied loosely, her eyes carrying a mixture of relief and concern.
"So it really is you," she said, stepping closer. "I recognized your writing the moment I read it. That pain… that rhythm… you haven't changed."
Rakib didn't know what to say. A strange tightness filled his throat.
"I didn't know it was you," he managed. "Why didn't you write from your name?"
She sighed. "Because I wasn't sure you would reply. And because… I wasn't sure if I deserved to meet you again."
They sat on the edge of the TSC stage, where the sound of metrorail echoing their silence. For a long moment, they said nothing. The afternoon breeze rushed past them.
"Your poem," Dipa began quietly, "it isn't just writing. It's someone bleeding on paper. You need to share it with the world. You always had something rare."
Rakib gave a small, empty smile. "Rare doesn't pay rent."
She looked at him sharply. "That's not fair- you know that's not why I called you. Rakib, you're drowning. And everyone knows it. Even I knew it… but…" Dipa stops.
Rakib stared at the ground. "Everyone stays away."
"Not everyone," she said softly.
Her words hung in the air like a hesitant touch. He felt something stir inside him… something long asleep.
They talked for nearly an hour. About poems, about the little betrayals life throws without warning, about promises people break and so on.
At one point, Dipa said quietly, "You're stronger than you think, Nill. Maybe life is pushing you somewhere you don't see yet."
He didn't argue. He had no strength left for arguments.
As the sun dipped behind the campus buildings, Rakib stood up. "I should go. I have… nothing to do, really, but still."
Dipa smiled faintly. "If you ever need to talk, I'm here. Won't disappear again."
Rakib nodded. For once, the nod wasn't an attempt to please anyone. It was simply honest.
He walked out through the bustling TSC gate, feeling a strange lightness- like someone had lifted a stone from his chest even if the mountain was still there.
When he reached Shahbagh Mor again, his phone buzzed.
A new email from the job authority he had been desperately hoping would accept him. His heartbeat quickened. Hands shaking slightly, he opened it.
"Dear Applicant,
We regret to inform you that after careful consideration…"
The rest blurred.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and tilted his head upward. Above the noise, above the chaos, the sky stretched vast and strangely comforting. A few birds crossed the orange horizon, flying somewhere far, somewhere free.
Rakib whispered to himself- not in despair, but in a quiet acceptance that sounded almost like courage:
"Jodi tor dak shune kew na ashe, tobe ekla cholo re."...
