Go after friends that want to see you shine and succeed at all times …not the ones that hate on you..
I believe Teaching AI in schools should be encouraged and advised because it seems to be a new technology that doesn’t just makes things easy but also fast and more explainable
Some say Love is blind, while some say beauty is in the eyes of the beholder….but what do you say about this?
When other people look at the great achievements of others, they see the final product: the medal, the award, the praise. What they do not see is the thousand small steps, the countless early mornings, the discipline it takes to keep showing up when nobody is watching. My own life has shown me one thing more clearly than anything else: consistency is the quiet force that pushes dreams into reality.
I did not start out with wealth, privilege, or perfect circumstance. What I had was a bicycle, a dream, and the willingness to work. When I first started cycling, writing, and couriering, there was nothing glamorous about it. Some days I was pedaling in the sweltering heat, others in drenching rain. Some nights I was sitting with pen and paper, writing down thoughts when the rest of the world that surrounded me was asleep. No one put a spotlight on me then, no one clapped for me. But I kept showing up.
Consistency is not about having perfect conditions. It is about making a choice, “No matter what happens, I will just keep going.”.
There were detours—more than I can remember. A had faced so many number of accidents, exhaustion during Ramadan rides, financial issues that it was tempting to give up. There were times when it felt like all the efforts weren’t adding up. But here is the truth: every small step was building me silently, like blocks being stacked one after the other to form a strong foundation.
When I had doubts, consistency whispered, “Just ride today. Just write today. Just show up today.”
And then, slowly, things began to shift. A little poem I wrote got noticed. A delivery I made with passion earned a customer’s smile. A submission to a contest won an award. A younger brother’s simple act of giving me his bike became a vote of confidence and faith.
People began to see the results, but what they couldn’t see were the years and months of perseverance that came before. Success wasn’t an overnight thing—it was built, one ride, one word, one action at a time.
Consistency has been my greatest teacher. It has taught me:
Discipline beats motivation. Motivation will be there one moment and then gone the next, but discipline stays.
Small actions make up large distances. One kilometre a day mounts up to hundreds over time.
Failure is never lasting if you keep moving. Every failure is temporary if you are consistent.
Trust is built over time. People trust those who show up daily, not every so often.
If you’re reading my story, this is what I’d like you to take away: You don’t need to be the fastest, the strongest, or the smartest. You just need to be consistent. In cycling, in academics, in career, in writing, or in fitness—keep to the small things every day.
Even when no one claps for you. Even when you’re tired. Even when progress can’t be seen. Because one day, when you look back, you’ll see how far you’ve come—and it will take your breath away.
Consistency isn’t perfection. It’s persistence.
My story is not over. I am still writing, still cycling, still learning. Each kilometre I cycle, each word I write, teaches me that greatness does not occur overnight—it occurs through the power of consistency.
And if I, a simple rider and writer from Bangladesh, can move nearer to my dreams because of consistency, then you can too.
So today, ask yourself: What small thing can I do—and do over and over and over—until it changes my life?
Because the secret is not to do it once. The secret is to do it again and again and again, until success has no other choice but to show up.
✨ Note this:
“Success doesn’t come from what you do occasionally. It comes from what you do consistently.”
The town came alive before me. Chittagong’s buzzing neighbourhood tended to wake up earlier than the sun itself, the buses rolling in their sheds, rickshaw pullers guiding their rickshaws into lines, and the sound of tea stall boys ringing glasses against one another. I pushed my fixed-gear bike out of the narrow alleyway, the chain glinting in the half-dark, and leaned on it for a little while.
My destination was far beyond the city’s noise—Dim Pahar, the nation’s highest motorable road point, between Thanchi and Alikadam, nearly 2,500 feet above sea level. A place that cyclists mentioned like a myth. To reach there on a geared bike was an accomplishment; on a fixie, it was bordering madness. But there was a logic to that madness: you sometimes need to force your body into extremes in order to hear what your soul is telling you.
Muradpur road at dawn was dead on. Minibuses honked, each competing to be louder than the last. Vendors were deploying their carts, blowing prices before they’d even laid out their produce. Traffic police, arms out like human metronomes, waved rickshaws and buses into the chaos. I clipped into my pedals, legs heavy with impatience, and started rolling into the crush.
The initial kilometers along Muradpur were like swimming against a torrent of steel and fumes. CNG auto-rickshaws splashed in crazy angles. Bus conductors stuck their heads out, rapping metal coins together in their hands, calling out passengers like carnival barkers. Trucks exhaled heavy smoke into my lungs. Every hundred or two hundred meters, the sharp barks of traffic police pierced through the din, their whistles shrill and insistent, attempting to subdue a city that would not be subdued.
I threaded through, twirling legs without break, the chain humming with the pure truth of a fixie. No coasting, no free ride. That was the philosophy that seemed right in this city—life does not give you a pause button; it moves you on, always pedalling.
As I came to Bahaddarhat, the horizon shifted. Skyscrapers lost their height, the horizon stretched open, and the hills that had resonated like rumour began to take shape against the lightening horizon. A narrow orange crevice glowed eastward. The trip’s first sunrise spilled over the highway, bathing trucks, rickshaws, and roadside tea shops in liquid gold. I breathed deeply. For a moment, the city’s hold loosened.
I pulled over at a street stand just outside the city’s mayhem. A wood stove popped and kettles warbled. The air was filled with a warm aroma of black tea, lemon, and ginger. I propped my bike against the bamboo frontage, wiping sweat from my brow.
“Koi jachen, bhai?” (Where to, bhai?) the seller asked, pushing into my palm a glass half-filled with piping hot tea.
“Thanchi jacchi (To Thanchi. Dim Pahar).
He paused, eyebrows shooting up. “Oi Bangla Cycle e?” (On that Non-Gear Cycle?)” He pointed toward my fixie, whose sole gear glinted in the flames. The stall regulars tittered, heads shaking in disbelief.
An elderly man with a grey beard, in a lungi and a worn-out Panjabi, leaned in. “Dekho baba, ami onek bochor oi pahaṛi elakaya ṭruck chalaisi. Pahaṛi elakaya gaṛi chalanor shomoi amar truck kapto, ar tumi—shudumatro bangla cycle niya jacho?” (You see, I spent years driving trucks in the hill tracts. Even gears cry on those hill drives. And you—with only one gear)?
I drank, the burn less intense now. “Uita e toh porikha. Kono shortcut nai. Shudu iccha shokti r amar pa” (That’s the test. No shortcuts, no coasting. Just will and legs).
The stall was quiet for a moment. Then the laughter dissipated into nods of admiration. “Allah bachaibo” (Allah will keep you safe), said the old trucker finally.
I had two more teas, refilled my water bottles with hot water, and started off again. The highway stretched long, bounded by half-sleeping markets and waves of rice paddies awakening in the sun.
By the time I reached the outskirts of Bandarban, the flat highway had converted into the rolling beat of hills. The first real climb hit me like a wall. My legs, accustomed to the flat bedlam of the city, were suddenly required to fight gravity’s pull. There’s no downshifting on a fixie—just lean forward, grip the bars hard, and negotiate your thighs into furnaces of flame.
Each pedal stroke was a prayer: push, pull, breathe, struggle. My pace slowed to a walk, but the chain whirred willingly, my agonized friend.
At a shaded corner, I stopped at another tea stall. This one had a wide veranda where a few men sat chewing betel leaf, spitting mechanically into the ground.
“Kotheke ashtoso?” (Where from?) someone asked.
“Chittagong. Muradpur.”
They opened their eyes. “R kothai jaccho?” (And where to?)
“Dim Pahar.”
The team erupted in discussion, half amazement, half admiration. A shopkeeper’s son questioned me “keno apni ita kortesen? Keno eto koshto kortesen jokhon odike bus, jeep r bike jai?” (why I did that. Why struggle on a cycle when there were buses, jeeps, and motorbikes?)
I thought about it for a bit. “Karon jibon chole upore utha te. Joidi ami ekhane pedal chalaite pari, tobe ami je konokhane pedal korte parbo.” (Because life is like a climb. If I can keep pedaling here, I can keep pedaling anywhere).
He smiled, with red-stained teeth. “Bhai, shomvob’o toh apni tikh bolse, tobu o ei cycle e” (Brother, perhaps you are right. But still… fixie?”
We laughed together.
The road bent deeper into Bandarban, each hill higher and steeper than the previous. Sweat dripped down my spine, moistening my jersey. My thighs trembled, mutinying. With every hard turn came another hill that ridiculed me.
But pain is a teacher. On a fixie, you learn that resistance is not the enemy but the tutor. The chain resists, the hill resists, life resists. But by working into resistance, by accepting it, you creep along.
I recalled all the nights of self-doubt, the crashes, the destroyed rims, the weariness of messenger duty in the brutal heat of Chittagong. All of those struggles had felt preparation for this road.
Halfway up a hill, a barefoot boy of maybe twelve came out of the bushes, banana sticks in a basket. “Chaibo?” (Need it) he asked shyly.
I bought three. He refused more money but asked if he could touch the bike. His tiny fingers moved over the frame, his eyes wide in wonder. “Ita toh bangla cycle kintu oino cycle gula theke alada lagtese keno?” (Brother it looks like a non gear cycle but why does it look different from other cycles?)
I nodded. He grinned as if he’d discovered magic.
There were hours of hard climbing after which the first long descent unfurled. My fixie zoomed angrily as gravity pulled me down the slope. Unlike geared bikes with freewheels, no escape. My legs pedalled wildly like crazy pistons, the pedals primed to fling me off in case I lost a stroke.
Fear clutched at my chest. A single misstep on these twisting roads lined with cliffs and forests could prove disastrous. In this fear was excitement. The wind rushed past my ears, the road curved in dazing turns, and every fiber in my body learned to yield.
I leaned into the turns, thighs burning, calves trembling, arms tense but prepared. To ride a fixie downhill is to dance with danger: one heartbeat behind, and the pedals can catch hold, sending you into lunacy. But hold the rhythm, trust in the chain, and you coast on the precipice between terror and rapture.
I paused at the edge, panting, laughter bursting uncontrollably from my mouth. The villagers in a roadside hut cheered with glee, as if I’d performed a circus trick. I had, in a way.
The last push to Dim Pahar was brutally beautiful. Forests thickened, valleys unfolded, and the road climbed mercilessly again. Every pedal a hill to climb. Sweeter air, thinner, perfumed with pine.
By then, my mind had gone quiet into something beyond words. Pain, sweat, breath, and chain were all that existed. Fixie philosophy revealed itself in the quiet: life is not comfort but cadence. “You keep moving, because movement is life itself.”
When I finally reached the top of Dim Pahar, the sky lay out before me in infinity. The hills rolled out for eternity below me, rivers glinting like ribbons of silver. Cool, crisp air, no mess of the city around me.
I dismounted, trembling legs. My bike rested against a milestone splashed in worn-off colours. I remained there for a long time, viewing, breathing.
Dim Pahar is more than a point on a map. It is proof that struggle refines you. That every drop of sweat is a seed, and at the summit, it blossoms into a view that words cannot hold.
It represented determination—refusing to give up when the world is telling you to. It represented simplicity—the single cog that, like life, wanted to be turned over and over again. And it represented humility—the understanding that the mountain does not conform to you; it merely allows you passage if you’re worthy.
As the sun dipped below the distant horizon of ridges, I sat to a final cup of tea prepared over a small fire by a group of villagers. The steam rose like incense into the evening. My legs ached, my lungs burned, but my heart was as light as air.
Dim Pahar was not a location. It was a mirror. It mirrored me back to myself without shortcuts, gears, and comforts. A bike, a rider, and a road that demanded everything of me.
And I gave it.
I thought about how an elderly African man can feel so much joy and I asked AI to get me one of the reactions knowing how tough it is for an African man all I want to do is see them/him happy and smile…
It was the 18th of August 2025, and at 5:00 am my day began. I woke up to the quiet darkness of dawn, prayed, and prepared myself for the day. The breakfast was simple yet fulfilling, and the pleasure of a cup of coffee afterwards. I then permitted myself to sleep off again, only to be awoken once more around 11:00 am, refreshed and ready for work.
As I was going to leave, I did a quick inspection of my cycle—brakes, chain, and tires. At 12:15 pm, I was ready for the Foodpanda ride. The mission, as always, was easy: deliver more orders and earn the extra rewards.
The orders continued to pour in, and I moved from point to point, navigating the familiar Chattogram roads on my cycle. All was going well in mid-afternoon. Close to 3:30 pm, I received an order from Sultan’s Dine. The pickup point was 2 No. Gate and I had to drop it around Chatteswari Road, and I was greeted by a polite customer with a smile. He even gave me a tip of 75 taka—a magnanimous gesture. That single act of kindness lifted my spirits, and I pedaled on with a smile.
All rides are not alike.
My last order of the day was at 4:45 pm from Fry Guys, Lalkhan Bazar. The order was on-demand but took longer than expected to prepare. Upon preparation, I checked the delivery details. The address marked Kolpolok Residential Area, but the map showed the drop of location at Khulshi.
I was confused and phoned the customer to confirm. Rather than be understood, I was met with a shout. He accused me of the delay and shouted at me. I tried to explain patiently,
“Sir, I don’t prepare the food—I just deliver it.”
He snapped again despite this, “I’ve written Kolpolok Residential Area, why are you asking again?”
His tone was abrupt, but I did not choose pride over patience. “Fine,” I told him, “I will deliver it to your residence within 30–45 minutes.” I hung up and departed.
The map showed 8 kilometers to Kolpolok. It was far, and already dark clouds were gathering above. But I toughed it out, pedaling at 28 km/h, to complete the delivery.
When I eventually reached the destination, I found another problem—no building name was said. I attempted to call him again, yet the first call read, “The user is busy.” Some more calls later, his phone was off.
It began to rain, soaking me from head to toe as I stood there holding the unpaid order. Moments like these test not only strength but also patience to the fullest. Eventually, the office called me, instructing me to take the food back to the vendor.
So, I went back. Another 8 km ride in the rain, returning, tired but still upright. When I returned the order, a vendor’s crew member glared at me in amazement.
“Brother, Kolpolok Residential Area is too far—how did you end up riding there in this rain?”
I simply smiled, though inwardly, I was saddled with the agony of the wasted effort.
That day ended on a strange balance: one customer had shown me generosity and compassion, and the other had tested my patience and stamina. Both will stay with me, as reminders on the road.
For each day on the cycle is not so much about the transport of food—it’s about the transport through moments, through people, through rain, and through grit.
The Spark of a Spoke
In the port city of Chittagong, nestled between the hills and the Bay of Bengal, where the call to prayer mingles with the sound of rickshaw bells, a quiet fire began to burn inside a boy. I didn’t have a luxury car in the driveway or a silver spoon on the table. But I had a dream that rolled on two wheels, quietly whispering: You were born to ride.
From an early age, bicycles fascinated me. They were more than machines. To me, they were metaphors – freedom on wheels. They symbolized self-reliance, motion, and simplicity. While other kids were chasing cricket scores or PlayStation levels, I was fixing chains, polishing spokes, and tracing unknown routes on maps.
My family, while not wealthy, was rich in integrity. My parents instilled values that would later guide me through the toughest curves of life: work hard, stay kind, and never give up. My mother’s prayers were the wind behind my sails. My father’s quiet sacrifices taught me dignity in labor.
I got my first real cycle as a teenager – worn out, second hand but undeniably my. The day I rode it around the city, the world seemed different. I wasn’t just riding around the city but I was moving toward something bigger; a life of direction, a life of self-earned rhythm.
Two Wheels and Tenacity
As years passed, I matured but my love for cycling only deepened. I didn’t chase material milestones; I chased meaning. While peers were planning foreign degrees or chasing desk jobs, I was sketching ideas that blended motion with message.
I saw cyclists as unsung heroes – those who battled sun, rain, dust, and disrespect just to earn a living. I saw the poetry in every spinning wheel and decided to make that poetry literal.
I started writing, short lines with sharp thoughts and honest reflections. I used my breaks between deliveries, resting under tree shades, sitting on concrete steps, to scribble verses. Some were about the road. Some were about the soul and some, about being unseen.
And that’s how “Wheel Whispers Words” was born – not as a brand, but as a voice, a voice for riders, for wanderers and for anyone who dared to dream while moving.
The Courier Who Delivered More than Food
In 2024, I joined Foodpanda as a delivery courier. For some, it was just a gig. But for me, it was a mission. Each shift wasn’t just about earnings – it was about endurance, about people, about learning the pulse of the city.
I started my day with the same checklist: uniform, phone, delivery bag and bicycle. But in that bag, along with meals, were folded poems – little slips of motivation or handwritten verses tucked inside packages. Customers began noticing. Some smiled, some responded and one even cried, saying it made their day.
Chittagong’s streets became my canvas. With every delivery, I learned something: empathy, resilience, timing, gratitude. My phone had more poetry drafts than photos. My handlebars knew more prayers than a mosque mic and through it all; I pedaled – sweating, singing and surviving.
More Than a Delivery
It was a warm evening, the sort where air is a passage from winter to summer. I navigated the empty streets, my delivery bag secure against my back. The destination address was new to me, nestled in a green area where streetlights threw long, golden shadows.
When I arrived at the house, the door swung open before I could even ring the bell on it. She was standing there—unassuming, yet confident, and with a poised warmth. A doctor, I later found out. She was then just another customer in line to receive her order.
She took the package with a polite smile, but there was something in her eyes that lingered—bright, curious, as if she carried the weights of other people’s lives but still found room for her own hidden joys. The exchange was brief, but long enough for me to sense that this was not just another package.
Later, browsing Facebook at a relaxed pace, I discovered the things that made her unusual. She was a professional healer, but her own pleasures were as simple as they were profound—coffee early in the morning, when the world was still gentle; new recipes in the evening, each one a little journey across a plate.
Her life was a balancing act between service and pleasure—saving lives by day, savoring life at night. Coffee was more than a drink to her; it was a ritual, grounding before the whirlwind of the hospital. Food was more than sustenance; it was the way she experience the world without ever leaving the city.
That night, as I rode away into the distance from her building, I thought about how every doorway was thick with story. Sometimes, the job wasn’t simply about bringing people food or medicine—it was about being around strangers who reminded you that life was rich and full of color.
And so, between endless trips and endless addresses, this one stuck with me—not due to the package I had delivered, but due to what it showed of a life lived wholesomely, without affectation.
A Delivery of Kindness and Trust
The evening sky had begun to darken, casting the city in orange and blue colors. My legs ached after a day on the bike, but one last delivery remained to be made. The map on my phone revealed a small apartment complex at the end of a quiet alley.
When I arrived at the gate, there was a girl waiting. Her eyes opened wide at the pink-and-white Foodpanda bag. She accepted the hot meal with a shy smile and stuffed her hand into her pocket.
The cost was 375 taka, and she opened her palm, in which there were no small currencies—just one 500 taka note. She looked in doubt.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t have change right now. Could you… bring it back later?”
I glanced at my watch. It was late, my shift nearly over, and going back would mean extra pedaling through the crowded streets. But I nodded without hesitation.
“Of course. I’ll bring it back tonight,” I promised.
Time passed. The city was quiet, and the majority of riders were already home. But around 10:30 p.m., after I had made my last drop, I rode my bicycle back to that small apartment. My legs protested with each stroke of the pedal, but my promise felt heavier than my weariness.
When I knocked on her door, the girl’s face broke into surprise. I extended the 125 taka change with a fatigued smile.
“I said I’d come back,” I said.
She took it, and then pushed a small bit of paper into my hand. “Keep 25 taka,” she insisted, “for honesty.”
It wasn’t the cash—it was the trust. In that quiet street, under the weak yellow light of the streetlamp, they both knew this was something more than a deal. It was proof that in a speedy world, goodness and honesty still matter.
That night, riding home, I felt more unencumbered. The roads were more level, the air slightly cooler. Because sometimes packages that come in their smallest form contain the greatest significance.
The Day the Rim Cracked
May 19, 2025. A date seared into my skin.
It was a regular Foodpanda shift 12:15 PM to 5:30 PM. I had completed four deliveries by 2:30 PM and was cruising near Muradpur, when chaos struck. A pick-up truck swerved too close. I jerked left, a pothole, sharp and deep, caught my front wheel.
Crash!
I hit the ground hard, blood from my knees. Dust in my throat. People watched, but didn’t help. My delivery bag was thrown aside. And worst of all – my rim was cracked. That cycle wasn’t just metal. It was a lifeline.
I limped home, heart heavier than my bruises. Without a bike, I couldn’t work. Without work, I couldn’t earn. Most would’ve taken weeks off. Not me.
The next Friday, a young brother, just a student of Class 9, lent me his own cycle – no questions asked. That gesture? Priceless!
Rising With the Road
Riding someone else’s cycle wasn’t easy. It was smaller, slower and different but I made it work. Week after week, I borrowed the cycle just to complete shifts. And all the while, I kept writing – more intensely than ever.
Then came July 22, 2025…
I had entered a writing competition by BSMe2e on a whim. The theme was reflection, and who had more reflections than a man watching the city from handlebars?
I won. 4,180 taka.
That might not sound like much too many. But to me, it was a jackpot. I used part of it to repair my own cycle – finally making it road-ready again and what did I did with the rest?
I bought cycle parts as a gift for the very brother who helped me keep riding when I had nothing.
That’s who I am. That’s what I stand for.
On August 4, 2025, I resumed work, stronger, smarter, and with even more heart.
Pedaling Purpose into Reality
After that, things shifted.
My story began spreading – in local cycling groups, among delivery rider communities but more importantly, my dream grew bigger.
I realized that if I could earn through cycling, so could others. But they needed help. They needed recognition. They needed a system.
So, I began developing an app called Wheel Whispers Rewards – Each KM, a Credit Towards A Change.
It’s vision?
It wasn’t just an app. It was a movement.
I wanted to prove that you don’t need to wear a suit to make a difference. Sometimes, a cycle jersey and a dream are enough.
Dreams That Don’t Sleep
My team wouldn’t just move fast—they’d move with meaning.
But I didn’t stop there.
I dreamed of riding my bicycle from Bangladesh to Makkah to perform Hajj – an unthinkable journey that symbolized faith, endurance, and submission. For me, it wasn’t about breaking records. It was about breaking barriers between human effort and divine trust.
Blood Donor, Soul Giver
Beyond riding, writing, and coding, I gave my blood—literally.
I donated 51 times so far. Not for applause. Not for medals but because someone, somewhere, needed to live and I could help.
For me, every drop of blood is a verse in the poem of humanity.
Every time I donate, I whisper to myself: Let this save a life. Let this be my legacy.
Lessons from a Life in Motion
My life may sound like fiction. But it’s real. It’s happening every day in the lanes of Chattogram, in the hearts of tired riders, in the inboxes of readers who find hope in my poems.
Here are the lessons I lived by:
The Road Ahead
As you read this, I might be riding somewhere – my cycle humming, my notebook half-full, my mind brimming with ideas. I’m still not rich in money but I am wealthy in will.
I believe the world doesn’t need more celebrities. It needs more everyday heroes – people who show up, who serve, who sweat in silence.
So the next time you see a rider pass you on a busy road, carrying a bag of food, or a courier with a tired face but determined eyes – remember: they might just be writing a legacy, one kilometre at a time and if that rider is me, know this – I not just going somewhere.
I am leading the way.
“I Ride, Therefore I Rise”
The Story of MD. Imjamul Hoque Bhuiyan
Beneath the noise of city roads,
Where sweat and toil in daily loads,
A cyclist rose with unshakeable aim,
I was born with dreams as expansive as heavens,
But thin pockets, and humble leavens,
I discovered that roads can at times be wide,
But every step can make you hard inside.
With wheels spinning, night and day,
I chased the morning, followed the ray,
Through heat of fire and rain so heavy,
Through moments heavy, charged with suffering.
My bike became my loyal companion,
On every bend, on every turn,
I delivered food, but more than that—
I delivered hope beneath my hat.
A Delivery of Kindness and Trust
One evening at dusk, in fading color,
I arrived at a gate, the sky deep blue yonder.
A girl was waiting, eyes shining bright,
Her hunger mirrored in the night’s dark light.
The total was 375taka that day,
But 500taka was all she could say.
“I’ll bring your change,” I said with ease,
Though tired legs begged for release.
Hours later, near half past ten,
I found her door, returned again.
125taka I placed with care,
A smile exchanged in the evening air.
She pressed a 25taka in my hand,
“For honesty, please understand.”
In that soft glow, a truth took flight—
Integrity warms the coldest night.
More Than Just a Delivery
Another day, a gentler hour,
A leafy lane, a blooming flower.
I knocked; she stood in steady grace,
A healer’s calm upon her face.
The package passed, the moment brief,
Yet something lingered—soft belief,
That every door holds untold dreams,
More than the job, more than it seems.
Through pages scrolled on idle night,
I glimpsed her world in quiet light—
Coffee at dawn, her sacred start,
A cure for both the hands and heart.
By evening, flavors lit her days,
Her joy found in the simplest ways.
And as I rode away again,
I knew her life was worth the legend.
Through streets without end my wheels turned,
Under the beat of the burning sun,
Through dark alleys, through mad traffic,
I learned the city like a child.
Not just rider—thread of story,
Weaving kindness where I went in glory.
I read in faces, rich and poor,
The same gentle hunger for something more.
A mother’s gratitude, a child’s shout,
The nod of strangers who drew about—
All told me work is not a wage,
But footprints on the way.
Each pedal stroke that turned was tempered in grit,
Each drop of sweat a candle lit,
To lead others through the haze,
To remind them of brighter days.
I lived through the doubts, the wakeful nights,
The bills, the injustices, the silent fights—
Yet in my chest a truth rang clear:
No dream’s too distant if you persevere.
So wheels went on spinning, quick and true,
Following morning’s red glow,
Through trials cutting, through the rain,
Finding the joy in the strain.
Now hear my tale, and hold it near,
For every listener, far or in tow—
Your road may turn, your burden appear broad,
But will is stronger than the tide’s load.
Be a rider like, gentle and steadfast,
With heart as compass, soul as guideline mental,
And know that each turn, each rising uphill,
Shall make your legend worthy of the telling still.
For in this life, as I have shown,
It’s not just space that we own—
But every smile, each hand we clasp,
That writes the Wheels of Will.
19th May, 2025
I woke with a plan in my chest —
To pedal faster, bear more,
Let the sun of the afternoon fray my sweat,
Let the road witness what a courier’s heart contains.
Session time etched in mind:
12:15pm to 5:30pm,
A span of hours where each kilometer thrums
With hope, hunger, and half-remembered poems.
By 2:30pm, four deliveries made,
Legs warm, lungs even,
When Muradpur became familiar under my wheels,
Fate sent me five orders of biryani to select —
From the snug warmth of 7Dayz.
Speed whispers liberation,
But liberation collides with fate at thirty kilometers an hour —
A pick-up door swings open, uncaring as a yawn,
And my body becomes a tale
Uttered in abrupt collision and shaking handlebars.
The crash was metallic-tasting,
But no time for tasting fear —
Biryani orders were waiting; hunger loomed larger than hurt.
Chose my cycle, my dented rim humming protest,
But I continued on riding —
Handed over every parcel, for riders do.
Only then, with the last handover,
When adrenaline faded and stillness spoke,
Did the crack reveal its truth:
My front rim — cracked, betrayed by asphalt and fate.
Could no longer ride.
Sitting became days, waiting,
Restless hands, ghost-pedaling legs in memory.
But kindness beats to its own tempo.
On Fridays, a younger brother of the brotherhood of wheels
Donated his cycle — an action out loud in silence:
Ride, even steel finds rest; spirit should not.
And I rode — not every day, but enough times to remember
Why I was taken by the road.
Then, on 22nd July, 2025,
Hope came knocking again — not as a door,
But as a spur-of-the-moment message:
$40 gift, won for a few honest words
In the Then vs. Now and Passion with Purpose Challenge from BSMe2e.
A thoughtful surprise,
Something greater than money — it was repair, rebirth
The squeak of new spokes singing beneath my weight.
Bolted on the rim, added a disc brake to the front —
The wheel rotated, and so did good fortune.
Saved some, for tomorrow’s dubious potholes,
For those moments when faith is as tenuous as air.
Now, when the city calls at midday,
And I clip in, prepared to deliver more than food —
I remember the door, the drop, the crack,
And the arms that came back to lift me up:
The grace of a brother, a test’s reward,
The stubborn thud of my own heartbeat demanding,
Not yet. Ride again.
Because in this messanger’s log,
Cracks do not end tales —
They show where the road taught me
To fall, mend, and the quiet power of getting back up.
Wheels turn, words pile up.
And with every ride, I carry both —
Stories that fought pavement,
And optimism that showed up wrapped in kindness and steel.
In my ears, the tender music flows,
My headphones are my favorite clothes.
With bass that thumps and treble that sings,
They’re, on my head, like angel’s wings.
They help me escape the world outside,
Into the only place where I can hide,
A place of rhythm, beats and sound,
Where melodies take me round and round.
I love the way my headphones make me feel,
Like I’m dancing in a dream that’s surreal.
With every beat, my heart skips a beat,
And I’m sailed to a musical retreat.
I can groove to the tunes for hours on end,
And that’s how the day comes to an end.
They are my favorite, see, my only toy!
A tender drop of rain, and the summer’s joy!
Promises or responsibility
Few oaths or all the duties,
Like the others commit
The commitment to being for eternity
Won’t I do like someone does exactly,
Thou I will commit everything to snatch all of your worries
That’s exactly what I call accountability and responsibility
When I will hear your voice and if it will be in worry
I’ll hold your hand in the abyss and fill the depth of your heart like the voice squeaky,
In a thousand years, someone does the love which becomes a memory for an eternity
Years like that I want to spend with you with my responsibility.
I can’t say I will be beside you always
Thou I know I will keep revolving like a moon
Gleaming around you invariably and that’s what I call responsibility,
Just to entangle our melted heart
I can’t see your face epitomizing worry
All I know is I’ll be like stars to make blushing your face perpetually,
Just like the impression of dave love you can be assured,
I will earn magic to bring a smile like the Betelgeuse star
Gleams in the night solitary when you’ll come home
If I see any sign of burden on your countenance
I can not promise I will assist you as like the protagonist
But I will take you into my arms pleasingly and will groom your hair
Caressing your shoulder
Kissing your forehead
Till I’ll melt all your worries in my psyche
That’s what I know will be my responsibility,
I’ll love you like the stars that chase the planets invariably
In between the oath and devotion
I’ll make feel you like the sun
Where I will keep revolving around you for eternity and it will be my responsibility.
When you’ll endure pain
I can’t promise I’ll eradicate your misery
But I will appear with happiness spilling the impalpable rain
To make you laugh with the pleasure to stand with amusement,
Some say there should be promises to keep hold of your love perpetually
But I know my responsibility, will be as the flesh for bones
To keep in a configuration invariably.
Give me your smile, soul, and everything
I will cherish it like the blooming flower and revolve like a honeybee,
I just know whether spelt or unspelt
Written or unwritten
Delivered or undelivered
Spoken or unspoken
But as the remaining stars
I will chase you in the vast galaxy
And that’s not my promise but the responsibility,
When you’ll fall asleep
Besides me like a box of honey shining graciously on an awkward shelf
I will stare at your countenance
Noticing your smile
How you sleep
The way you fold your arm
The way you put your face on my chest
The way you hold my hand
Like a child does
The way you groom your hair
The way you grin
The way you gleam
The way you love me
The way you bind me
The way your heart murmurs
The way the rainbow sparkles on your face
The way your hazel eyes blink
The way you blush
And will personify all your activities in my poetry
Like a poet never fall short of words
I will uncover all your elegance in my prose
That’s not the promise but will be my responsibility.
Fall for me as stars fall in nebulae
Like a wave subsides to ashore
I’ll lean on you
Whenever the bellied cloud will follow
I’ll bring the colourful cute rainbow for eternity,
Reside once my hand
I’ll be the advisor, admirer, aficionado, fancier, protector
Whether written or unwritten everything will be my priority
To bring a smile,
To make feel your warmth
To become the need for life
That’s not my promise but what I call it my proud accountability and responsibility.
With her by my side
In our love, we had to hide
The sensual inundation of sights and
The joy in her face brightened with each step we made
Down the aisle, I looked at her cherry-red lips
Murmuring… “I love you”
The crowd made chattering sounds
A sign of praising the man in me
I stupidly smiled at them
A way of showing respect
The storm was finally over
And as I had promised
I had to crown my queen
The time had finally come
For the bell to ring
So that I could put a ring on her finger
“And you may now kiss the bride”
“Wake Up”
I almost cried when I realised it was a dream
But I had to let my pen do the crying
Everything was grand that one night,
Never thereafter and never before,
I admit it: I was left with nothing but the big birds
And their hungry cries in the dark evening