This is not a speech.
This is not a demand.
This is a reminder.
Dear Bangladesh,
We are not here to block your roads.
We are not here to slow your progress.
We are progress.
We are not rebels.
We are not troublemakers.
We are not foolish daredevils risking our lives for thrill.
We are
Your workers,
Your students,
Your teachers,
Your mothers,
Your fathers,
Your dreamers,
Your survivors.
We are the ones who wake up before dawn
And reach before the traffic wakes up.
We are the ones who burn calories instead of fuel,
Who take pressure off your buses,
Who leave a smaller footprint on your already exhausted earth.
We are not asking for special treatment.
We are asking for basic recognition.
Give us one lane.
We will share it with pedestrians.
We will share it with rickshaws.
We will share it with anyone who moves with honesty.
Give us one rack to lock our bicycles.
We will bring ten more riders tomorrow.
We will reduce ten cars from your jammed highways.
Teach your children that cycling is not a sign of poverty.
Teach them that it is a sign of strength.
Teach them that legs are as powerful as engines — when used with purpose.
We are not trying to replace your cars.
We are trying to remind you that freedom does not always come with a key — sometimes it comes with a chain and two pedals.
Bangladesh, don’t wait for Europe to tell you that cycling is modern.
You invented resilience.
You invented efficiency.
You invented moving forward — even when the world said it was impossible.
Let us move forward again. Together.
Not by horsepower.
By human power.
—
Sincerely,
The Cyclists You’ve Seen but Never Noticed.
We’re not asking for permission anymore.
We’re already on the road.
There was once a cyclist who joined a long-distance ride.
Everyone around him was fast — carbon frames, shiny helmets, legs spinning like turbines.
He, on the other hand, rode a simple single-speed. No gears. No glory. Just legs and lungs.
Within the first few kilometers, he fell behind.
People overtook him one by one. Some even smiled pityingly as they passed.
He could’ve stopped. He could’ve said, “What’s the point? I’ll never catch up.”
But he didn’t.
He didn’t chase.
He didn’t panic.
He didn’t compare.
He just kept pedalling.
Uphill? Slow… but pedalling.
Downhill? Relaxed… but pedalling.
Flat road? Tired… but pedalling.
Hours later, he began to see something surprising.
The fast riders who had sprinted early were now resting by tea stalls, fixing punctures, rubbing cramped legs.
And as he quietly rolled past them — still pedaling — they looked up in disbelief.
He wasn’t the fastest.
He wasn’t the strongest.
But he was still moving.
By the end of the ride, he didn’t win first place.
But he finished — when many who started stronger had already given up.
That’s when he realized:
You don’t need gears to go far.
You don’t need speed to win.
You just need consistency — even when nobody is watching.
So if today feels slow — keep pedalling.
Your pace doesn’t matter.
Your persistence does.
October 1st marks the Nigerian Independence Day…
Dhaka was not designed for mortals.
It is a living, breathing beast — a fire-breathing rickshaw-dragon whose lungs wheeze with diesel, whose veins pulse with traffic jams, and whose heartbeat syncs perfectly with the monotonous “peep-peep-honk” of ancient microbuses held together with prayer and duct tape.
On an average weekday morning, Dhaka commuters undergo three emotional phases:
It was on such a morning that Tanim, a 28-year-old Gulshan corporate zombie (job title: Assistant Territory Strategic Synergy Coordinator Level 2), sat trapped inside his Uber, moving at the speed of dried glue.
He glanced out the window.
And there he went.
A cyclist.
Threading through traffic like a knife through hot jilapi.
No gears. No Lycra. No mercy.
His bicycle: Single Speed. Matte black. Minimalist. A silent assassin.
He passed 47 cars in 11 seconds, maybe 12.
Tanim blinked.
What sorcery is this?
Somewhere inside him, a switch flipped.
Something ancient. Something primal.
The rage of a man tired of clutch-pumping.
He muttered aloud, shocking both driver and self:
“Bhai… amio bicycle chalabo.”
(Brother… I too shall ride.)
He exited the Uber right there, in the middle of Pragati Sarani, dodged two CNGs and a rogue fruit cart, and walked the rest of the way to work — not because it was practical… but because legends must start somewhere.
There were others.
They did not know each other.
They did not need to.
But fate — and Facebook — was about to change everything.
While most Dhaka residents debated fuel prices and bus strikes, a secret war brewed beneath the chaos — not of swords or guns, but of hubs.
Specifically: Fixed Gear vs Single Speed.
A group assembled at 11:47 PM near a shuttered tea stall. No banner. No announcement. Just a silent code: one red taillight pointed upward — the signal of The Clan.
They called themselves:
“The Unfreewheelers.”
(If the wheel spins, so must the legs.)
They were Dhaka’s Fixed Gear cult. Riders who believed that coasting was cowardice and that braking was for weaklings and accountants.
Their leader?
Nusaiba Haque, “No-Brakes”.
Age 21.
Pink fixie. Golden chain. Track straps so tight you either ride or die.
She stood upon a discarded City Bank ATM receipt pile like a war general and addressed her followers:
“Brothers. Sisters. Those who identify as cranksets… Hear me.
We are one with rhythm. Our legs are the law.
Freewheelers mock us. They coast downhill like fallen angels of laziness.
They believe momentum is a gift.
WE EARN IT.”
Dozens of fixie riders nodded intensely, some too vigorously, accidentally rolling backward into rickshaws.
She raised her hand.
“Tomorrow, at dawn — Hatirjheel Bridge — we prove that Fixed is Fate.”
Cheers erupted. A man fainted from leg cramps.
Meanwhile… in Shyamoli, at a quiet cha-er dokan (tea stall) behind a laundry store…
Another gathering was underway.
These were the Freewheelers, also known as:
“The Coasting Collective.”
(Why pedal when gravity loves you?)
Led by Babul Mia, “Atlas Warrior”, possessor of a bicycle so heavy it was rumored to be forged from leftover Padma Bridge steel.
He cleared his throat.
“Friends. Brothers. Occasional uncles.
These Fixie bois think constant pedaling makes them superior.
They boast of ‘connection to the drivetrain’.
But let me ask —connection to what?
Arthritis? Knee surgery?”
Wild applause. Someone shouted, “Freewheel and chill!”
Babul slammed his paan on the table.
“If Fate forced man to pedal forever, He would not have invented coasting.”
A single-speed rider wept quietly into his milk tea.
“Tomorrow — Hatirjheel Bridge.
We ride.
And we coast… with PRIDE.”**
Dawn.
Mist rising from the lake.
Fishermen confused.
Joggers terrified.
And from two opposite sides of the bridge…
Pedals tensed. Eyes locked.
And then—
A rickshaw puller rang his bell. Once.
DDRRRINNNNGGG.
THE WAR BEGAN.
The rickshaw bell echoed like a divine gong of war.
BANG! Like arrows loosed from ancient bows, both legions launched forward. Hatirjheel’s calm morning was shattered by the clash of ideals, pedals, and excessive ego.
Nusaiba Haque, “No-Brakes” led from the front, thighs moving like hydraulic pistons, her pink fixie slicing through morning fog like a neon scythe.
“CONSTANT CADENCE!” she roared.
“IF YOU EVER STOP PEDALING — STOP LIVING!”
Her squad obeyed with terrifying devotion. Their legs were not limbs anymore — they were rotating prophecies.
A bus driver witnessing the stampede muttered, “Ei gula ki Tour de France naki Tour de Dhaka?”
From the opposite end, Babul “Atlas Warrior” Mia stood on his pedals, gliding with the elegance of a man who refuses unnecessary exertion.
“COAST WITH DIGNITY!” he bellowed.
“LET THEM SWEAT! WE SHALL ROLL TO VICTORY!”
His army of gleaming freewheels responded in kind — silently descending into battle like proud refrigerators on wheels.
At the bridge’s midpoint, chaos unfolded.
A confused dog joined the battle without picking a side. It bit only those who wore reflective vests.
Just as things were spiraling into pure insanity…
A third sound rumbled in the distance.
Not the high-pitched whir of fixies.
Not the gentle click of freewheels.
But the deep, thundering CHONK of knobby tires.
All turned to see…
Like war elephants descending from the hills, they rolled in — full suspension, dual disc brakes, hydration packs filled with Pocari Sweat.
Their leader, clad in GoPro and righteousness, growled:
“ENOUGH.
While you argue about hubs…
We climb stairs.”
Silence.
Even Nusaiba stopped pedaling for one second (and instantly regretted it).
There, on the sacred concrete of Hatirjheel Bridge — amid shattered ego, loose spokes, and misplaced water bottles — the warring factions stood, panting and humbled.
A silent agreement passed between them: No one was winning.
And worse — the real enemy wasn’t across the bridge.
It was around them.
The Fixie leader, Nusaiba “No-Brakes,” finally unclipped her straps, kneeling dramatically on the asphalt.
“I… cannot skid-stop my way into justice alone.”
Babul Mia “Atlas Warrior” placed a gentle hand on her shoulder — mostly because he was too tired to bend properly.
“And I cannot coast my way to freedom without allies.”
The Mountain Bike General, solemn as a Dhaka Metro librarian, extended his gloved hand.
**“Brothers. Sisters. Gearless and geared.
Let us unite.
Not as Fixie.
Not as Freewheel.
Not as Full Suspension.
But as one unstoppable force…
The People’s Pedal Army.”**
They marched — not to a conference hall, but to the nearest tea stall, because all diplomacy in Bangladesh must be negotiated over:
The tea-stall owner, confused but fascinated, wiped a ketchup smudge off a discarded plastic table and declared:
“This is now your negotiating platform.
But if you break it, you buy it.”
Using a soggy tissue paper and a borrowed pen, they drafted the first-ever cycling alliance charter:
Everyone nodded in solemn approval.
The tea-stall owner stamped it with oily shingara grease, thus making it official.
With the Accord signed and sealed in glorious shingara grease, the newly united People’s Pedal Army needed one final weapon.
Not steel. Not speed. Branding.
A whiteboard (stolen from a coaching center) was dragged to the tea stall. A marker (borrowed from a traffic police officer who didn’t notice) was uncapped with reverence.
The army sat in council:
Together, they brainstormed like their chains depended on it.
Within hours, posters began appearing across the city:
A Facebook page emerged: “People’s Pedal Army – Bangladesh Division.”
Rafiul Islam: “I HAVE NO BIKE BUT I WILL RUN WITH YOU.”
Jhorna Akter: “Is it okay if my cycle has a basket and a bell with cartoon frog? Asking seriously.”
Mahmudul Hasan (verified doctor): “Cycling reduces cholesterol. I support this message.”
Anonymous Bus Driver: “I will honk less, maybe.”
1 angry commenter: “Eta ki India theke copy?”
A post was scheduled.
Bold. Dramatic. Center-aligned in bright red text.
FRIDAY. DAWN. RAMNA PARK GATE.
ALL RIDERS. ANY BIKE. ANY CONDITION.
WE ROLL AS ONE.
Caption: “Bring money for food. Helmet mandatory, Gloves optional, Ego forbidden.”
The rally was set.
Friday. Dawn. Ramna Park.
But true cyclists know — a revolution doesn’t start with speeches.
It starts with WD-40 and inappropriate zip ties.
An abandoned parking lot in Kawran Bazar became the unofficial headquarters. There, under flickering streetlights and the faint aroma of biryani steam escaping from nearby restaurants, bicycles of every species gathered for midnight surgery.
“Revolution does not discriminate.”
He was immediately promoted to Chief of Aesthetics.
The preparation was half engineering, half circus:
Before dispersing for the night, The People’s Pedal Army formed a circle, placing their tools in the center:
They raised their right hands (and one person raised a spanner instead).
“Repeat after me,” said Nusaiba.
“We do not fear potholes.”
“We do not fear honking.”.
“We fear only… bicycle thieves.”
They nodded in collective trauma.
One by one, the riders rolled home through silent streets.
Some fast.
Some slow.
Some stopping to buy peanuts.
Dhaka slept.
But the ground trembled with anticipation.
For tomorrow…
Not just wheels.
Spirits would turn.
At 5:12 AM, when Dhaka usually belongs only to muezzins and street sweepers, the city witnessed something… unfamiliar.
No sirens. No honking. No brawling over CNG queues.
Instead—
The sound of pedals.
Hundreds of them.
Mist curled above the lake like nature’s own smoke machine. Birds paused mid-song to stare in disbelief.
From all directions they came:
They formed lines as if pulled by magnetic destiny.
Even more unbelievable—
Nobody fought.
At 5:30, Chief Mediator Babul “Atlas Warrior” Mia raised his right hand (and accidentally threw his water bottle).
“PEOPLE’S PEDAL ARMY!” he thundered.
“WE RIDE!”
They pushed off as one.
Down Minto Road.
Across Shilpakala.
Past blank-faced policemen who didn’t even bother to stop them because:
“Let them go. Ei gula politics kortese na. Ei gula oxygen choriya ditese.”
As they cut through Shahbagh and entered the wide stretch by the National Museum, heroes were forged.
Some in greatness.
Some in embarrassment.
Soon they were a hundred cyclists and one confused dog.
At the turn towards Dhaka University, tragedy struck.
One chain snapped.
A young rider skidded to the side, clutching his lifeless link like a fallen comrade.
He sighed, defeated.
But suddenly—
Three riders stopped beside him.
Together, they resurrected the chain.
The boy looked up, teary-eyed.
“Why help me? I don’t even know you.”
Babul Mia smiled.
“Because in traffic, you are alone.
But in cycling… you are never alone.”
As the sun rose orange over Dhaka University’s gates, the People’s Pedal Army rode through like a living banner of defiance.
Students cheered.
Rickshaw pullers saluted.
One tea-seller shouted:
“Bondhura! Eid-e biryani free!”
No one believed him, but spirits soared anyway.
They rode through Dhaka like a whispered prophecy — silent yet undeniable.
A hundred cyclists gliding through morning light.
No sirens. No slogans. No megaphones.
Just presence.
And that’s what made people finally look up.
From sidewalks to balconies, from tea stalls to bus windows — people stared.
Not with annoyance.
With confusion first.
Then curiosity.
Then, slowly…
Hope.
“These aren’t VIPs.
These aren’t protesters.
These aren’t athletes.
These are… people like us.
But moving differently.”
They didn’t block roads.
They didn’t chant slogans.
They didn’t demand change.
They became change.
Every pedal stroke whispered into the city’s ear:
“Traffic is not inevitable.”
“Pollution is not destiny.”
“You don’t need permission to move freely.”
For the first time in years, the city saw motion without suffering.
Speed without noise.
Movement without violence.
It was not a protest.
It was a mirror.
And Dhaka — for a moment — saw what it could be.
That evening, the People’s Pedal Army page posted just three words:
“WHO’S NEXT FRIDAY?”
In 12 hours — 3,000 comments.
“Sylhet branch forming.”
“Chattogram ready.”
“Rajshahi out here doing wheelies already.”
“Gazipur rolling deep.”
“Comilla says try stopping us.”
“Barishal bringing boats too because why not.”
They didn’t solve traffic that day.
They didn’t change law that day.
They didn’t build cycle lanes that day.
But they did something far greater.
They cracked the city’s belief that it must suffer to move.
Long after the dawn ride ended, long after the last chai cup clinked at the tea stall headquarters, long after the posters faded from street poles and the Facebook notifications slowed to a trickle…
Something remained.
Not in the streets.
Not on the bicycles.
But in the riders.
Change does not always roar.
Sometimes… it rolls softly.
In the quiet of a late afternoon traffic jam, a bus passenger looked out her window — saw a lone cyclist slip between cars with the grace of certainty — and thought:
“Maybe… I could do that.”
In Gazipur, a garment worker saved for three months and finally bought a secondhand Chinese bicycle with faded stickers and wobbly pedals — and smiled like owning a spaceship.
In Rajshahi, a student chose to ride instead of rickshaw — not because he had to, but because he wanted to feel free.
In Chattogram, a fisherman strapped nets to his cycle and rode to the docks — faster, lighter, prouder.
In Dhaka, an office worker arrived early — sweat on his forehead, joy in his lungs — and his coworkers asked:
“Traffic nai?”
He grinned.
“I don’t believe in traffic anymore.”
It was never about fixed gear vs single speed.
It was never about hub ratios, tire widths, or how many times you skid-stopped in front of confused policemen.
It wasn’t even about saving the Earth or solving traffic.
It was about remembering something we forgot.
That movement is a right.
That freedom is not bought with horsepower — it is earned with heart power.
That you don’t need permission to live lightly, joyfully, defiantly.
Every bicycle has a hub.
It spins endlessly — not because it is pushed…
…but because it believes in rotation.
That is what this movement truly gave Bangladesh.
Not cycle lanes.
Not viral fame.
Not even unity.
It gave us a hub inside our chest — a spinning core of agency that says:
“I am not stuck.
I can move.
I deserve to move.
And I will move.”
And so, whether on a 50,000 taka imported fixie…
Or a 3,000 taka scrap-yard miracle…
Or even just in the mind…
The People’s Pedal Army lives on.
Not just on roads.
But in every heartbeat that refuses to rust.
28th September. 3:30 PM. Hamzarbagh.
The sky was dressed in a soft grey shawl — not threatening to rain, but heavy enough to remind me that sunlight wasn’t fully in charge today. A gentle wind moved through the streets like a silent advisor, warning me that the ride ahead would not be entirely effortless.
I stood beside my machine — my single-speed warrior, geared at 48×18, stripped of all luxuries, obedient only to the strength in my legs. No gears to shift blame onto. No suspension to soften life. Just a riser handlebar, a stem bag carrying my phone and pocket money, and the most valuable component in cycling — a determined rider.
I pulled down the zipper of my FnF Riders jersey — the one that proudly declared “Pedal Power” across my chest. Beneath it, small letters whispered “Keep Pedalling, Stay Healthy.” I smiled at those words — they didn’t know how seriously I took them.
I clicked my helmet, took a deep breath, and kicked off.
Hamzarbagh faded behind me as I rolled forward. The traffic was moderate, but unusually calm — as if the city respected my mission today. Trucks groaned lazily, CNGs hummed past, and the occasional bus sighed like an old man too tired to argue.
The wind pushed, but didn’t fight. It wasn’t a headwind battle — more like a quiet resistance, a reminder that every journey worth remembering needs a little friction.
My cadence stayed smooth. My legs found rhythm. My mind emptied.
I wasn’t riding to KEPZ.
I was riding into stillness.
As I passed the Toll Plaza, a group of police officers signalled me to slow down. My first thought — “What did I do?” But before I could even unclip my foot, one of them grinned and said:
“Bhai, just one round on your cycle — can we try?”
I laughed. How could I say no?
One after another, they rode my bike, each returning with the same expression — pure surprise.
“Bhai, this has no gear?”
“How is it so smooth?”
“Single speed?! Feels like flying!”
I stood back, arms folded, watching my bike bring joy to strangers. That’s the magic of cycling — it turns grown men into children again.
Then came the real treat.
“Come, tea kheye jaan. Baba Lungi’r Buffalo Chaa.”
Ahh. The legendary one. Not just tea — an experience. Thick, frothy, sweet, powerful — like drinking motivation.
I stood there beside policemen, sipping Buffalo Tea, my cycle resting proudly like a well-earned trophy. We talked about my rides, their duty shifts, and the madness of traffic. For a moment, rank didn’t matter — badges and bicycles, both symbols of duty.
With warmth in my throat and new energy in my legs, I rolled forward.
The road widened. The noise thinned. The sky breathed deeper.
By now, fatigue had started whispering at my calves, but I answered back with steady cadence. No rush. No show-off. Just flow.
And then — KEPZ appeared.
The entrance stood like a guarded gateway to another life. I slowed down, hoping I could sneak in… but of course, security protocols don’t care about cyclists’ dreams.
“Entry restricted, bhai.”
No frustration. No disappointment.
I simply pulled over, parked beside the gate, and took a few photos. Proof not of arrival — but of attempt.
Because sometimes in life, you don’t need to reach inside to say — I was here.
I turned back.
The clouds had shifted. The wind had softened. The world felt… quieter.
Halfway through the return journey, I approached Shah Amanat Bridge.
Something in me whispered — Stop.
So I did.
Right in the middle of the bridge, I planted my foot down, leaned against the railing, and let the Karnaphuli breeze wrap around me.
The river beneath — still and timeless.
The sky above — quiet and questioning.
The bike beside me — waiting like a loyal friend.
In that moment, I wasn’t a delivery rider. I wasn’t a cyclist on a casual evening ride. I was just a human being pausing between past and future.
By the time I reached Hamzarbagh, evening had settled in.
I parked my cycle, removed my gloves, and walked toward the mosque.
Inside, I stood in prayer — not asking for anything. Just thankful.
Thankful for legs that move.
Thankful for lungs that burn but recover.
Thankful for machines without engines that still outrun sadness.
Sitting outside afterward, I looked at my single-speed bike — paint slightly dusty, chain slightly stretched, bar tape slightly worn — and I whispered to it like a rider whispers to a horse:
“What if I turn you into something more?”
What if I swap the riser bar for drop bars?
What if I mount aero bars in the centre — turn you into a time trial missile?
What if one day…
…we ride across the country together?
Not just Hamzarbagh to KEPZ.
No.
Tetulia to Teknaf.
East to West. North to South.
Not for race.
Not for fame.
But to prove that one gear — and one heart — is enough.
I don’t know when that day will come.
But until then…
I will keep pedalling.
I will stay healthy.
I will stay ready.
Because Pedal Power… is not just printed on my jersey.
It’s printed in my soul.
Last month, I was invited by Archana Manalwar Ma’am, the head of Dnyanarchana Apang Sneha Bahuuddeshiya Sanstha, Divyang Swavlambi Udyog. Initially, due to lack of time, I couldn’t conduct the workshop, but later she reached out to me with their inspiring business idea. On this foundation, I started sharing my thoughts on product design and creative opportunities that could help divyang entrepreneurs become self-reliant. What began as a project assignment has now turned into a lifelong commitment. They don’t need money, they need time, guidance, and support as human beings. That’s why I have decided to walk this journey with them—not just for competition, but because I genuinely believe in empowering others. This project has given me direction and purpose, and I promise to continue contributing and expanding this initiative in the future.
Last month, I was invited by Archana Manalwar Ma’am, the head of Dnyanarchana Apang Sneha Bahuuddeshiya Sanstha, Divyang Swavlambi Udyog. Initially, due to lack of time, I couldn’t conduct the workshop, but later she reached out to me with their inspiring business idea. On this foundation, I started sharing my thoughts on product design and creative opportunities that could help divyang entrepreneurs become self-reliant. What began as a project assignment has now turned into a lifelong commitment. They don’t need money, they need time, guidance, and support as human beings. That’s why I have decided to walk this journey with them—not just for competition, but because I genuinely believe in empowering others. This project has given me direction and purpose, and I promise to continue contributing and expanding this initiative in the future.
A story told through multiple cyclists across Bangladesh — sweating, struggling, laughing, fighting traffic and fate — all united by two wheels and a stubborn refusal to surrender to gridlock.
Dhaka doesn’t wake up — it explodes into existence every morning.
Engines cough to life like asthmatic dragons. Horns scream without reason. Rickshaw bells jingle like desperate prayers trapped beneath a sky of tangled wires. A bus leans diagonally into traffic like it’s about to fall over, yet somehow keeps going, groaning like an exhausted mammoth. CNGs zigzag like insects on caffeine. Pedestrians squeeze between bumpers like toothpaste in slow motion.
And above all this chaos is heat. The kind that doesn’t just sit on your skin — it climbs into your bones and whispers,
“You’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”
Inside a silver Toyota Car somewhere in Uttara, Farhana slumps against her seatbelt. She’s been parked — not driving, parked — for 53 minutes without moving more than half a kilometre. Her iced coffee has become warm milk. The FM radio host is cracking the same jokes again because the station playlist reset. The Uber next to her has three passengers who have opened their food containers and started having breakfast three lanes deep in traffic. A bus conductor outside is standing still — leaning against his own bus — yawning like he’s on vacation.
And then it happens.
Whooooosh.
A blur of red and black cuts past her window.
A bicycle. A real, actual bicycle. Tall girl, backpack bouncing, scarf flying behind her like a flag of rebellion. Sunglasses on. Zero hesitation. Zero apology.
She slices between the cars like she owns the road.
No rusted chain sound. No messy pedalling. Just glide.
Farhana blinks once.
“…Wait. People… still do that?”
The cyclist disappears ahead — probably already at work, maybe even ordering her first cup of tea while Farhana is still breathing exhaust.
It hits her:
“I am paying lakhs of taka to be trapped like a prisoner in my own car…
And that woman just outsmarted the entire city with a bicycle worth less than my bumper repair.”
Somewhere else in the city — on Airport Road, on Chattogram Port access lanes, the same scene is playing out again and again.
People locked in traffic, staring out their windows like characters in a dystopian film…
…Watching slim silhouettes on bicycles cutting through gridlock like knives through hot bakorkhani (paratha mixed in sugar syrup).
Some glare in annoyance.
Some laugh in disbelief.
A few mutter, “Pagol naki?” (Is she mad?)
But deep, deep down — in a place they don’t admit exists — one dangerous thought grows:
“What if I could do that too?”
And that is where every revolution begins.
Not with protests. Not with slogans.
But with envy.
With curiosity.
With one frustrated commuter whispering,
“Maybe I don’t have to live like this.”
That night, Farhana couldn’t sleep.
Not because of stress, not because of work —
but because of that cyclist.
Her car was still vibrating in her mind. The horns, the sweating, the hours lost calculating “if I leave 10 minutes earlier, maybe…” — lies she told herself every day.
Meanwhile, that woman had probably reached home, showered, eaten, scrolled through memes, and slept peacefully — while Farhana was still in traffic.
The injustice of it ate her alive.
At 2:13 AM, Farhana opened her phone and typed:
“Is it possible to commute in Dhaka… by bicycle?”
Google answered with chaos.
Blogs by foreign expats biking around Banani like they were in Copenhagen.
YouTube vloggers showing off Dhaka Cycle Lane near Hatirjheel (which is mostly used for couples taking selfies).
An article titled “Cycling in Dhaka: Brave or Suicidal?”
She scrolled. She thought. She stared at her ceiling fan.
What if I tried? Just once… just to see…
The next evening, she lied to her family.
“I’m going to Aarong.”
Instead, she went to a small bicycle shop in Mirpur-2. Dusty, cramped, full of steel frames hanging like sleeping bats. A teenager behind the counter looked up.
“Apu, ladies cycle niben?”
(“Sister, you want a ladies’ cycle?”)
She hesitated.
“No. Not the shopping one.
I want… the one that can fly past cars.”
The boy grinned.
He knew exactly what she meant.
The next morning at 7:10 AM, when the city was still yawning awake, Farhana put on loose sportswear, wrapped her scarf tight, strapped on a helmet that still had the price tag attached — and rolled her new cycle out of the apartment gate.
The security guard nearly dropped his tea.
“Apa… cycle chalan?”
(“Madam… you ride cycle?”)
She didn’t respond.
She was too busy hearing her own heartbeat rattle inside her chest.
She put one foot on the pedal. Wobbled. Nearly fell.
For a second, she considered turning back.
Her brain screamed:
“What if someone laughs? What if I fall? What if a bus crushes me like a cockroach?”
But then — like a voice from deep inside — she heard:
“What if… you win?”
She pushed forward.
As she entered the main road, everyone stared.
A rickshaw puller slowed down beside her, smiling like he’d spotted a celebrity.
A delivery boy shouted “Boss level!”
A microbus driver rolled down the window and said,
“Madam, respect. But careful, amra pagol er motoh gari chalai.”
(“Madam, respect. But be careful, we drive like maniacs.”)
She smiled.
She reached Mohakhali flyover entrance — where traffic usually collapses like a dying elephant.
Cars frozen. Buses roaring but going nowhere.
The same scene as yesterday. But this time—
She didn’t stop.
She glided between the cars, like a ghost slipping through walls.
The wind hit her face.
Her scarf fluttered behind like a banner of rebellion.
And suddenly — she wasn’t sweating in traffic anymore.
She was flying.
At 8:03 AM, she reached Motijheel.
Forty-four minutes.
Forty-four minutes.
Yesterday it took three hours and twelve minutes.
She parked her bicycle beside a tea stall. The tea-seller raised his eyebrow.
“Apa… gari koi?”
(“Sister… where’s your car?”)
She smiled, breathless.
“Ei tar moto gari nai.”
(“There is no car like this one.”)
She didn’t just reach earlier.
She reached transformed.
And by lunchtime, half of her office had already heard:
“Farhana apa, office-e cycle e ashe!”
(“Farhana comes to office… by bicycle!”)
Some laughed. Some stared in disbelief.
But at least three people whispered silently to themselves:
“Could I… also?”
If Dhaka is a battlefield, Chattogram is a warship in perpetual collision.
Here, the air tastes like salt and diesel, the skyline is a jagged wall of shipping cranes, and every road seems designed for trucks, not humans.
Which is why Sohel, age 19, rides like someone who expects to die every day — but refuses to.
Sohel lives in a cramped tin-shed room near Firingee Bazar with five other delivery boys. They sleep in shifts, like factory machines. By 6 AM, he’s already strapped 40 plastic food packets to the back of his bicycle with rope and a holy amount of determination.
He doesn’t ride the bicycle.
He attacks the road.
His route is madness incarnate — weaving between:
Container trucks 20 times his size, roaring like dragons,
Oil tankers spilling rainbow puddles onto the asphalt,
Rickshaws tipping sideways from overload,
Bus drivers who treat lanes as folklore,
Roads that suddenly vanish into craters the size of bathtubs.
Most people would ride cautiously.
Sohel? He leans forward like an anime protagonist and yells:
“Shoren nahole chapa khaben!” (“Move or you will be crushed!”)
It’s not fancy. Not imported. Not carbon fibre.
Just a rusted Hero Ranger, painted blue once upon a time, now half-silver from wear.
Brakes? Relative concept.
Bell? Long dead.
Seat cushion? Replaced with folded newspaper.
But to Sohel, it’s not a cycle.
“Eta amar ruji-ruti. Amar ponchash hazar-takar gari.”
(“This is my bread and butter. My fifty-thousand taka car.”)
One morning, a massive trailer truck, stacked high with steel rods, swung too wide at Agrabad and almost flattened him.
Most people would freeze.
Sohel banged his fist on the truck’s side panel and shouted:
“Truck chalaite ascho naki jahaz?!”
(“You driving a truck or a ship?!”)
The truck driver laughed, rolled down his window, and shouted back:
“Tor matha thik nai! Eibhabe Cycle chalachosh!”
(“You’re insane! Riding like that on a bicycle!”)
Sohel grinned.
“Bissash koro, bhai. Cycle chara ami jibon e deri kori na.”
(“Believe me, brother. With a bicycle, I am never late.”)
He delivers to banks, fish warehouses, Customs offices, dockside tea stalls, dodging sweat, stray dogs, inspectors, and occasional drunk sailors.
There are days he collapses into bed, clothes still wet from rain + sweat + sea breeze + who knows what else.
But when his friends ask,
“Tui klanto hoye jaish na?”
(“Don’t you get tired?”)
He replies,
“Cycle cholai klanti ase na. Jail theke mukto manusher energy ase.”
(“Cycling doesn’t bring fatigue. It brings the energy of a man freed from prison.”)
One day, he wants to save enough money to buy a better cycle — maybe even a geared one.
But when asked what he would choose between a motorcycle and a bicycle, he doesn’t even blink:
“Motorcycle e petrol proyojon. Cycle e sudhu ichchha shokti.”
(“A motorcycle needs fuel. A bicycle needs only willpower.”)
He may not write poems.
But his every ride is one.
Not with words.
But with speed, sweat, and defiance.
Some people start cycling to get fit.
Some, to beat traffic.
But Mr. Rahman, age 45, started cycling because he had no other choice.
For 15 years, Mr. Rahman rode a worn-out Chinese motorcycle to his supervisor job at a garment factory in Gazipur. It rattled like an empty tin can, leaked oil like a crying buffalo — but it worked.
Until the day petrol price reached high.
That day, his wallet didn’t bend — it broke.
He stood at the pump, calculating the month’s cost in silence.
The pump boy stared.
Finally, Mr. Rahman muttered,
“Ei petrol amar bacchar dudh er taka khay felbe.”
(“This petrol will drink my child’s milk.”)
He turned around.
He never filled petrol again.
At the back of his house, under a pile of rusted metal, lay an old Phoenix bicycle — his father’s.
He dragged it out. Washed it with Dettol water like it was diseased. Tightened nuts, oiled chains with leftover cooking oil. No helmet. No gloves. No lycra. Just lungi, sandals, and sheer determination.
His wife watched nervously.
“Eirokom bhabe cholte parba?” (“Can you even ride like this?”)
He smiled slowly, like an old soldier remembering war.
“Ami cycle chalaite janber age thekei pari. Cycle amar astro.”
(“I could ride a bicycle before I could ride any machine. It is not transport. It is my weapon.”)
His commute: 11 kilometers of trucks, factory buses, potholes, and dust storms.
Within 10 minutes, he was sweating like monsoon rain, panting like a steam engine.
His thighs burned. His lungs begged. His sandals slipped on the pedals.
He almost gave up.
But then a fellow cyclist — a young factory worker carrying a backpack twice his size — passed him casually and said:
“Bhai, lungi e baje lagleo, jor dia pedal den!”
(“Brother, even if the lungi flaps, keep pushing!”)
They both laughed.
And just like that — shame turned into solidarity.
Weeks passed. His body adapted like an old machine rebuilt.
His belly shrank.
His sleep improved.
His mind grew sharper.
At the factory gate, co-workers teased,
“Rahman bhai, cycle e ashi apni akhon healthy lagchen!”
(“Rahman bhai, ever since you started cycling, you look younger!”)
He pretended not to care.
But at night, brushing his teeth, he’d look at the mirror and whisper,
“Amar boyosh komse naki?”
(“Have I actually aged backwards?”)
One evening, his 8-year-old son ran to him shouting,
“Abba! Amio cycle chalano sikhte chai!”
(“Dad! I want to learn cycling too!”)
Mr. Rahman froze.
Not because of the request.
But because he realized:
This wasn’t just about saving petrol money anymore.
This was about rewriting dignity — one pedal at a time.
Mr. Rahman doesn’t ride fast like Sohel.
He doesn’t ride rebelliously like Farhana.
He rides steady. Silent. Relentless.
Like a man who knows:
“Some days, bicycles are not exercise.
They are resistance.”
If cycling in Dhaka is an act of bravery, then cycling as a Bangladeshi woman is an act of rebellion.
And Sadia, 22, never planned to be a rebel — but the road made her one.
She used to take a rideshare service from Dhanmondi to her university in Mohammadpur — twelve minutes without traffic, forty-five minutes minimum with traffic.
But that wasn’t even the main problem.
The real problem was the stares.
Through the rear-view mirror. Through side glances. Through uncomfortable silences.
One morning, stuck behind a garbage truck, inhaling fumes that tasted like chemical curry, the rideshare driver casually asked:
“Apa, boyfriend ache naki?”
(“Sister, do you have a boyfriend?”)
She stared straight ahead.
Didn’t respond.
He pushed again.
“Kotha bollei to kisu hoyna.”
(“Just talking won’t hurt.”)
That was the moment she broke.
That same evening, she went to her younger brother’s bicycle, dusted it off, adjusted the seat — and rode around the alley like a woman possessed.
Her mother yelled from the window:
“Meye manush hoye rastay cycle chalash ken? Lokjon ki bolbe?”
(“How can a girl ride on the street? What will people say?”)
Sadia didn’t stop.
She just yelled back:
“Tara kichu bole boluk. Ami chalbo.”
(“Let them say what they want. I will ride.”)
The next morning, 7:30 AM, she took a deep breath — and rolled her bicycle out of the gate.
Helmet on. Backpack tight. Scarf secured.
She turned onto Dhanmondi Road 27.
Instant silence.
Not on the road — the road was chaos as usual — but in the minds of everyone who saw her.
A woman. Alone. On a bicycle. In traffic.
One rickshaw puller smiled proudly.
One biker slowed down to stare — she glared back until he sped away.
A tea stall guy muttered, “Respect.”
But there were also whispers.
“Dekho dekho, meye cycle chalaitese!”
(“Look, look, a girl is cycling!”)
“Ato independent hoye gelo eto tara tari!”
(“These girls are becoming too independent!”)
She heard it all.
She felt it all.
And she pedaled harder.
At Jhigatola turn, a bus nearly clipped her while trying to overtake recklessly.
She slammed the brakes. The driver leaned out of the window and yelled:
“Erokom speed e ashle lagbei to!”
(“If you ride like that, of course you’ll get hit!”)
Her blood boiled.
She yelled back without hesitation:
“Ami thik speed e ashi. Tumi thik kori chalo!”
(“I’m riding at the right speed. You drive properly!”)
The passengers inside cheered.
The bus driver fell silent and drove away.
At a traffic light, another cycle rolled up beside her.
A girl. Around the same age. Dressed casually. Earphones in. Confident smile.
She nodded at Sadia.
“Prothom bar?” (“First time?”)
Sadia exhaled in relief.
“Haan. Jor kore choltese.” (“Yes. Going with force.”)
The girl grinned.
“Tension nai. Dhaka e amra kom, but ekjon onnor jonno onek.”
(“Don’t worry. We women cyclists are few here — but each one gives courage to many others.”)
The light turned green.
They rode together.
No words.
Just unity in motion.
Sadia didn’t become a cyclist to make a statement.
But every pedal she takes is one.
Not against cars.
Not even against traffic.
But against the idea that freedom has a gender.
If Dhaka’s cycling scene were a film, Iqbal would be the grizzled veteran — the one who’s seen the glory days and the downfall, standing quietly in the corner until the young heroes stumble across him.
He’s 52 years old, former post office courier from Old Dhaka, now running a tiny cycle repair shop near Azimpur graveyard.
His shop is barely more than a tin shed, with chains hanging like necklaces and wheels leaning like tired soldiers. The air smells of old grease, cheap cigarettes, and nostalgia.
He wasn’t always an old mechanic tucked behind broken rims.
Once, he was the king of speed.
“Amader shomoy Dhaka te gari kom chhilo. Cycle chhara kichu chhilo na.”
(“In our time, there weren’t many cars in Dhaka. There was nothing but bicycles.”)
He used to deliver letters across Dhaka — from Postogola to Farmgate, from Lalbagh to Tejgaon — all by pedal.
No GPS. No lanes. No Lycra.
Just raw intuition, lung power, and legs carved by necessity.
“Ami din e 40 kilometer chalaitam. Tokhon keu bole nai je cycling fitness er jonno bhalo. Oita chhilo jeeboner jonno bhalo.”
(“I used to ride 40 km a day. Back then no one said cycling was good for fitness — it was good for survival.”)
He watched as cars multiplied like parasites.
Then came motorbikes — buzzing like mosquitoes, arrogant like kings.
Rickshaws were tolerated.
Bicycles?
Vanished.
People started laughing at couriers.
At cycle riders.
At him.
“Takhon cycle chalaile lokjon bolto — ‘beshi gorib naki vai?’”
(“When I cycled, people would say — ‘Brother, are you that poor?’”)
The comments stung more than rusted chains.
While adjusting a loose crank, he saw three teenagers with helmets and GoPros roll up to his shop.
They were fixie riders — sharp frames, bold colours, talking about cadence and aerodynamics like they were NASA engineers.
“Bhai, single speed aro kom maintenance. Derailleur lagbe na.”
(“Brother, single-speed needs less maintenance. No derailleur.”)
Iqbal stared at them.
He didn’t understand the English words — fixie, cadence, gear ratio — but he understood something sacred:
They were reviving his world.
Now, every evening, young riders gather at his shop.
They come with rusted frames scavenged from fb market groups, asking:
“Chacha, eta theke ki cycle banano jabe?”
(“Uncle, can this become a bike?”)
And Iqbal, eyes twinkling like a proud grandfather, replies:
“Everything can become a bike — if you really want it to.”
He teaches them not only how to fix cycles — but how to respect them.
How to listen to a bearing the way a doctor hears a heartbeat.
How to align brakes with patience instead of anger.
How to tighten a chain not too hard, not too soft — like tuning a sitar string.
And when new riders doubt themselves, he gives them the same line every time:
“Shorir thakle gari lage na. Mon thakle rastar o dorkar nai.”
(“If your body is strong, you don’t need a car. If your spirit is strong, even roads don’t matter.”)
Iqbal doesn’t ride much anymore.
His knees creak when he pedals.
But when he sees someone fly past his shop, wind in hair, chain rattling in rhythm—
He whispers under his breath:
“Ja. Tui amader shobar jonno pedal kortesis.”
(“Go. You’re pedalling for all of us.”)
They don’t know each other.
They’ve never shared a cup of tea.
They don’t ride the same roads.
Yet every morning at 8 AM, Rahim in Dhaka, Sohel in Chattogram, Mr. Rahman in Gazipur, Sadia in Dhanmondi, and Iqbal in Old Dhaka are linked—not by proximity, but by rhythm.
The rhythm of pedals turning in defiance.
Rahim wipes the sweat off his forehead as a bus honks behind him—he doesn’t move.
Sohel climbs a Chattogram overpass, steam rising off his neck, but he grins as he overtakes a CNG.
Mr. Rahman in Gazipur whispers “Bismillah” before merging into highway chaos.
Sadia breathes deeply near Dhanmondi Lake, resetting her mind before office.
Iqbal stands outside his shop, sipping tea, watching the sunrise reflect off a passing bike.
None of them know that in that moment, somewhere else in Bangladesh, another rider is fighting the same battle.
They are not alone.
There’s no political banner.
No NGO campaign.
No leader.
Just two wheels, a will, and a country that forgot how powerful bicycles once were.
But something is shifting.
When Rahim reaches office earlier than his co-workers stuck in traffic — someone notices.
When Sadia posts her cycling commute on Instagram, three other girls DM her asking, “Is it safe?”
When a teacher sees Sohel with his helmet, he asks if he can borrow the cycle for a day.
When Mr. Rahman fixes his tie after a 12km ride, a colleague jokes — “Ami o chesta korbo ektu.”
When Iqbal builds another bike from scrap, a kid from the neighbourhood stays to watch.
And slowly…
One becomes two.
Two becomes five.
Five becomes a community.
They don’t know it yet, but fate is aligning their spokes.
Soon…
A group ride will be organized on Facebook.
A journalist will publish a story titled “Bangladesh on Pedals.”
A corporate office in Gulshan will install its first bike rack.
A girl in Sylhet will start cycling to college after seeing Sadia online.
A courier company will hire cycle riders again—just like the old days.
One day, maybe all five will be in the same rally.
Standing side by side, unaware they’ve been riding toward each other all along.
Their names may never be spoken in the same sentence…
But history will remember them as The First Wave.
For months, the movement had been silent.
No banners.
No speeches.
No official recognition.
Just quiet defiance, one pedal stroke at a time.
But every revolution eventually collides with reality.
And in Bangladesh, reality accelerates at 90 km/h with a cracked windshield and no side mirror.
One Thursday morning, Rahim — the same man who conquered traffic with calm — was cycling past Banani flyover, keeping to the side as always. He heard the honk.
He shifted slightly.
The bus driver didn’t.
The mirror clipped his handlebar.
Gravity claimed him.
He slid across hot asphalt.
No dramatic slow-motion — just a blunt thud and a blurry sky.
Drivers stared.
Some muttered, “He shouldn’t have been on the road.”
Nobody stopped.
Except one motorbike rider who pulled over — not to help, but to record a video.
Minutes later, that video hit Facebook.
Caption:
“Why cyclists shouldn’t be allowed on main roads.”
Hundreds of comments followed.
“He deserved it.”
“Cycling is for parks, not highways.”
“Attention seekers on two wheels.”
Rahim recovered with minor injuries.
But something else broke that day — trust.
Sohel in Chattogram had his cycle stolen — right outside a tea stall.
Mr. Rahman in Gazipur was refused entry into his own office because “cycling is not professional.”
Sadia was followed by two bikers for over 10 minutes — laughing, circling her like prey.
Iqbal’s shop was fined for “blocking the sidewalk with broken frames.”
Different cities.
Different incidents.
Same message:
“You don’t belong here.”
Cyclists didn’t fear pain.
They feared being treated as a joke.
In Bangladesh, a car is seen as success. A bike is seen as failure.
And yet… they kept riding.
Because walking away wasn’t an option anymore.
The video of Rahim didn’t just spark mockery — it sparked anger.
Not loud anger.
Not protest anger.
A quieter kind — the kind that simmers, unspoken, on group chats and message threads.
Cyclists across Dhaka, Chattogram, Gazipur, Sylhet, Rajshahi…
…found each other in the comments.
Someone wrote:
“If we don’t speak up, they’ll erase us from the roads.”
Someone else replied:
“Then let’s be impossible to ignore.”
And so, without realizing it — the first real wave of unity began.
No one sent invitations.
No megaphones. No sponsors. No government permission.
Just a Facebook event post titled:
“Ride for Respect — Saturday Morning. Hatirjheel. 7:00 AM. No speeches. Just wheels.”
Nobody knew who started it.
Some thought it was a cycling club.
Some thought it was an NGO.
Some thought it was a prank.
But that Saturday morning, something extraordinary happened.
At first, only five riders.
Then fifteen.
Then fifty.
Within an hour, more than two hundred bicycles lined up along the waterside of Hatirjheel — everything from rusty postal bikes to neon fixies, from schoolgirl cycles with baskets to delivery men’s steel frames weighted with cargo straps.
They didn’t match.
They didn’t know each other.
But they nodded like soldiers who shared a silent code.
Not friends. Not activists.
Something deeper.
Rahim, still bandaged, stood silently beside his blue single-speed.
Sadia, in her bright windbreaker, wiped dust from her mirror.
Mr. Rahman, in formal shoes, loosened his tie.
Sohel, fresh off a train from Chattogram, rolled in late but with a grin.
Iqbal — not riding, but standing with a small toolbox, “just in case someone needs tuning.”
They didn’t introduce themselves.
They didn’t exchange names.
They didn’t need to.
The sun was rising.
The city was still groggy.
And then — without a whistle, without a leader —
They Pedaled.
A wave of spinning spokes moved through the empty road — not as competitors, but as one living organism.
Rickshaw pullers stared.
Car drivers honked — not in anger, but in confusion.
Passer-by’s stopped mid-stride with phones up.
Something was happening.
A hundred bicycles gliding like a moving prayer.
This was not a protest.
It was proof.
Proof that cyclists exist.
Proof that the roads are not owned by engines alone.
Proof that Bangladesh had not forgotten how to move with dignity.
And for the first time ever—
Drivers slowed down.
Not out of fear of law.
But out of respect.
When the ride ended, no one gave a speech.
A few clapped softly.
Most just smiled — awkwardly, proudly.
Some exchanged numbers.
Some didn’t.
And then — just like that — they dispersed.
Back into buses of chaos.
Back into the alleys.
Back into solitude.
But something had been established:
They were no longer individuals.
They were a movement.
This is not a speech.
This is not a demand.
This is a reminder.
Dear Bangladesh,
We are not here to block your roads.
We are not here to slow your progress.
We are progress.
We are not rebels.
We are not troublemakers.
We are not foolish daredevils risking our lives for thrill.
We are your workers, your students, your teachers, your mothers, your fathers, your dreamers, your survivors.
We are the ones who wake up before dawn
And reach before the traffic wakes up.
We are the ones who burn calories instead of fuel,
Who take pressure off your buses,
Who leave a smaller footprint on your already exhausted earth.
We are not asking for special treatment.
We are asking for basic recognition.
Give us one lane.
We will share it with pedestrians.
We will share it with rickshaws.
We will share it with anyone who moves with honesty.
Give us one rack to lock our bicycles.
We will bring ten more riders tomorrow.
We will reduce ten cars from your jammed highways.
Teach your children that cycling is not a sign of poverty.
Teach them that it is a sign of strength.
Teach them that legs are as powerful as engines — when used with purpose.
We are not trying to replace your cars.
We are trying to remind you that freedom does not always come with a key — sometimes it comes with a chain and two pedals.
Bangladesh, don’t wait for Europe to tell you that cycling is modern.
You invented resilience.
You invented efficiency.
You invented moving forward — even when the world said it was impossible.
Let us move forward again. Together.
Not by horsepower.
By human power.
—
Sincerely,
The Cyclists You’ve Seen but Never Noticed.
We’re not asking for permission anymore.
We’re already on the road.
If a bicycle could speak,
It would not shout.
It would not argue.
It would simply whisper:
“I was here before your cars.
I will remain long after your cars are gone.”
“I am not made of status.
I am made of steel, chain, and patience.
I do not demand petrol from your earth.
I only ask for bread from your rider.
I do not cough smoke into your children’s lungs.
I only teach them balance.”
“Your fathers once rode me to school.
Your mothers once carried water with me.
Your freedom fighters once pedaled me through villages,
Carrying messages when radios were silent.
And yet — somewhere along the way —
You began to believe I was shameful.
That only the poor should ride me.
That I belonged in alleys, not highways.”
“I have seen my riders fall —
Pushed aside by buses,
Mocked by strangers,
Forgotten by policy.
And yet — every morning —
I am still there,
Waiting by the gate,
Asking nothing but a push of a foot
And a little courage.”
“If you choose me,
I will carry you farther than you think.
I will give you time —
Not in speed, but in freedom.
I will give you health —
Not in medicine, but in motion.
I will give you dignity —
Not in wealth, but in balance.”
“I am not just transport.
I am resistance.
I am renewal.
I am revolution — disguised in simplicity.
If you listen closely,
You’ll hear me in every spinning spoke:
Bangladesh, your future does not run on engines.
It rides on pedals.”
I have always believed that life is stitched together by stories—some borrowed, some broken, some barely told. They come from people who carry secrets in their eyes, from places that hold echoes in their walls, from meals that are more than just food but whole histories cooked into taste.
And then there is me—pedalling, chasing, eating, writing. A restless traveller who believes that if something feeds the soul, then it is worth staying for.
It began on a road that wasn’t mine.
A narrow stretch of asphalt winding past rice fields, where farmers bent low under the sun and buffalo stood ankle-deep in muddy water. My bicycle was nothing special—a steel-framed, single-speed creature that rattled when I shifted weight too quickly. But it was loyal. The way a road dog is loyal, following without question, steady despite the storms.
Cycling is its own poetry. Each turn of the crank is a syllable, each wheel rotation a verse. The body becomes the pen, and the world the paper. Some days, I felt like I was writing sonnets with my sweat. Other days, I was scribbling desperate fragments in the dust.
But that first road taught me something: stories don’t live in books alone. They live in the rhythm of footsteps, in the curve of a handlebar, in the sound of your breath when you’re too tired to continue but still do.
People feed stories as much as stories feed people.
There was a tea-seller on the corner of a sleepy junction, his stall made of bamboo and rusted tin. His tea wasn’t extraordinary—sugar, condensed milk, and black leaves boiled until the air smelled faintly bitter—but the way he served it was. He handed every clay cup as though it was an offering. He looked at you, right at you, as if you mattered. And somehow, in that five-rupee sip, you did.
There was an old woman I met on the road to Cox’s Bazar. She was selling fried bananas by the bus stand, her hands oil-stained, her sari faded to threads. I bought one and she asked me, almost casually:
“Son, why ride a cycle when buses are faster?”
I smiled, unsure how to explain. But she laughed before I could answer.
“Ah, you ride to feel the road, don’t you? The road has more stories when it is slower.”
She was right. I learned that day that some people, without knowing, can name the hunger inside you.
Food is never just food.
A plate of dal and rice carries a grandmother’s hands, the markets where lentils were bought, the soil where rice was planted, the river that watered it. Every bite is a time-travel.
I ate biryani under a cracked neon light in Old Dhaka, and it wasn’t just saffron, meat, and rice—it was history. The cook told me his father had stirred the same pot during the war, feeding tired men who dreamt of freedom between battles. “We cooked so they could fight,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. And suddenly, the biryani was more than flavour. It was survival.
I ate humble khichuri on a rainy day, the steam rising like prayer. A stranger shared half his boiled egg with me, even though he had so little. It struck me then: food tastes different when shared. That simple plate taught me more about generosity than any sermon ever could.
Cycling itself writes poems.
The roads whisper metaphors:
The uphill grind teaches you about persistence.
The downhill rush teaches you about surrender.
The flats teach you that not every day has drama; some are just steady miles.
Once, pedalling through a storm, rain slicing across my face, I thought: Isn’t this life? Pushing against a wind that doesn’t care if you succeed or not. But the poetry was not in the struggle—it was in the choice to keep moving.
Sometimes, when my body tired, I recited verses in my head. Words gave me the strength my muscles lacked. And sometimes, when words failed me, cycling wrote its own verse: a line of sweat down my cheek, the steady beat of my breath, the sound of tires on wet gravel.
We all chase purpose as though it hides in grand victories. But I began to find mine in fragments, scattered along the journey.
Purpose was not in medals or finish lines. It was in sharing water with another cyclist on a hot day. It was in listening to an old fisherman talk about tides while eating his freshly grilled catch. It was in sitting under a banyan tree with strangers, breaking bread, and realizing we were no longer strangers.
Purpose was in stories—of people, of places, of food. And maybe, my own story too.
I began to write. Not just for myself, but so that others could ride with me through words. To remind someone stuck in a grey cubicle that the world still waits with open roads. To tell someone eating alone that food becomes sacred when shared. To whisper to someone tired that poetry is not only written—it is lived.
One evening, after a long ride, I sat at a small riverside stall. The sun was setting, painting the water gold. I ordered fish curry and rice. A young boy brought it over, smiling shyly, and said:
“Uncle, this is my mother’s recipe. She says food is love.”
And it hit me then.
Cycling, food, poetry—they were never separate things. They were ways of remembering, of carrying love forward. Each ride, each meal, each verse was a way of saying: I was here. I lived. I listened. I shared.
Stories are not about escape. They are about arrival. They remind us that what feeds the soul is always worth staying for.
So here I am—still riding, still writing, still eating, still searching. Still believing that somewhere on the road, between hunger and poetry, between wheels and words, I’ll find a story worth telling again.
And maybe, just maybe, it will be yours.
A Journey through the Lives of Those Who Commute by Bicycle — Their Struggles, Their Joys, and the Freedom That Awaits in Every Pedal Stroke
When the City Wakes
Chattogram does not wake gently.
It does not stretch slowly with its endless yawns of honking buses. No, Chattogram wakes like a worker late for a shift. It erupts.
By 6 AM, the port roads already rumble with trucks loaded with containers, engines groaning like tired giants preparing for another day of burden. CNGs buzz like angry insects, darting between potholes. Rickshaws clang their bells, trying to claim what little space is left and yet, amidst this orchestra of metallic chaos — something softer moves, something quiet, something human, a Bicycle.
Just one at first, then another, then another — like subtle brushstrokes painting resistance against the fevered rush of engines.
The First Rider — The Office Worker on a Hill
His name is Farhan, thirty-two, father of one daughter who still sleeps when he slips out of his small apartment in Khulshi.
He used to own a motorbike once — a shiny red one, had to buy on EMI. More money would be spent on fuel. Every month it drained him more than it carried him. Insurance, registration, repairs — one accident later, hospital bills. He sold it. His colleagues laughed.
“Is he school kid? Going to office on cycle?”
He didn’t reply. He bought a used 21-speed MTB for 8,000 taka. It creaked. The gears jumped sometimes. But it moved when he moved, and that was enough.
Now, every morning, he rides down from Khulshi hills, wind whipping his shirt like a freedom flag. He rides past GEC Circle, past lines of cars melted together in standstill traffic. Some drivers watch him with envy, others with confusion; few with silent respect. He does not wave. But inside, he smiles.
The Second Rider — The Delivery Boy With Too Much Speed and Too Little Sleep
Halfway across town, in Amin Jute Mill area, Shakil — nineteen, wiry, restless — ties the straps of his giant Foodpanda delivery bag onto his back.
His bicycle is single-speed, no gears, back-pedal brake, bought from Bakalia second-hand market. The chain squeaks like a complaining elder. But he loves it.
He didn’t choose cycling because he was an athlete. He chose it because he had no bike license, no money for a motorbike, and no one to co-sign a loan.
So he rides. Not for sport. Not for fitness but for survival.
He knows every turn of Agrabad, every shortcut through Chawkbazar. He weaves past buses like a fish escaping nets. Sweat pours, legs burn, lungs ache — but his earnings depend on speed.
Motor bikers look down at him sometimes.
“Cycle rider! Getting tired!”
But they don’t know.
Every order he delivers is not just food — it is his rent, his mother’s medicine, his little sister’s school fee.
So he pedals like his future depends on it — because it does.
The Third Rider — The Girl Who Refused to Wait for Permission
In Pahartali, a girl is standing with her bicycle.
Her name is Nusrat, second-year student at Government Women’s College, Chattogram. She wears a black hijab and sports shoes. Her cycle is a bright purple Phoenix passed down from her cousin.
People stare. Some smile. Some whisper.
Her parents didn’t like it at first.
“What will people say? Being a girl riding cycle?”
But she had one argument no one could defeat.
If I go on a rickshaw people will see instead I am going on a cycle, what is the difference?” Silence!!!
Now she rides to class every morning, feeling like the whole world belongs under her wheels. When she overtakes boys her age, she doesn’t gloat. But her confidence becomes armor.
Girls at the campus asked if she feels scared.
“First I used to get scared but not anymore now.”
One day, she dreams of starting Chittagong’s first all-women cycling meet-up. But for now — she rides alone.
And that is still a revolution.
The Fourth Rider — The Old Man Who Never Stopped Riding
Far from the young riders chasing time, in Patenga, a different cyclist rolls slowly along the beach road near the lighthouse.
His name is Abdul Hakim, sixty-eight. His bicycle is older than some of the trees planted along the road. A rusted black Hero with handlebar wrapped in worn-out cloth.
People know him. Fishermen wave. Bus conductors nod. He has been riding this same road for over forty years — first to textile factory, then to dockyard, now just to keep his knees alive.
He could take the bus. He could walk. But he says:
“When I can move my legs then why not ride.”
One City. Four Stories. One Thread.
Different lives. Different ages. Different reasons.
One rides for convenience.
One rides for income.
One rides for defiance.
One rides for dignity.
But every morning, their paths intersect — at traffic signals, tea stalls, roadside breakfast counters of paratha and tea.
They do not always speak.
But they recognize each other.
Not by face.
By leg scars from pedal strikes.
By oil stains on ankles.
By sweat that feels like sunrise instead of struggle.
They nod.
A silent brotherhood — and sisterhood — forged in motion.
The sun climbs higher over Chattogram, burning gold onto the port roads. It’s 8 AM, the hour when the city is at its fiercest. Trucks groan with containers, buses roar with passengers, and the occasional auto rickshaw squeals to life as if competing with every other engine. Dust curls into the air, thick enough to make you taste it. Somewhere in the middle of this industrial chaos, the cyclists continue, pushing pedals with sweat on their backs and determination in their eyes.
For Farhan, the hills of Khulshi are not just scenic; they are a daily battlefield. His legs scream as he climbs each incline, lungs burning, sweat dripping down his temples. The chain of his old MTB rattles against the gears, threatening mutiny at the worst moments. A bus lurches past, showering him with dust and fumes. A careless driver barely gives a honk to warn of the near collision.
And yet, he rides on. Why? Because each morning, each kilometer, is a small victory over the suffocating grip of gridlock and dependency on engines. The office won’t wait for him, the deadlines won’t pause, but the freedom he feels while pedaling — even in this chaos — is unmatched.
He passes Tea Stall near Agrabad, and the aroma of freshly fried paratha and tea lifts him for a moment. He doesn’t stop. He can’t. Every second counts. But he breathes, inhales the city’s energy, and thinks: This is why I ride.
Shakil, the delivery rider, knows every danger intimately. A pothole hidden under stagnant water can throw him off balance. A motorbike swerving without warning could crush him if he isn’t alert. He dodges pedestrians crossing at the wrong moment, shopkeepers stepping into the road, and hawkers who suddenly appear with bamboo poles.
Sometimes, he miscalculates. A sudden swerve to avoid a lorry sends his backpack skidding against the road. Orders drop. His heart pounds. He curses himself but continues. Each delivery is a lifeline for his family, and there is no alternative.
Yet, despite all these dangers, there is a rhythm. Cyclists like Shakil develop a sixth sense. He can anticipate the bus driver’s moves, feel the gust from a truck’s tires, and sense when a pothole lies beneath murky water. It’s a tense dance, a battle of reflexes and instinct, and every successful ride feels like winning a small war.
For Nusrat, the challenge is not just the physical strain. Social perceptions weigh heavily on her. Riding through crowded streets as a woman, she faces stares, occasional ridicule, and subtle warnings: “Girls shouldn’t be cycling.”
Rain or shine, she rides. She has learned to anticipate the unspoken obstacles — a male classmate questioning her presence, a passer-by attempting to intimidate, or even a curious child asking why she chooses a bike over a rickshaw.
Her strength is quiet but unyielding. Every pedal stroke is an assertion of independence. The hills near Pahartali challenge her muscles, but more importantly, they challenge the city’s assumptions about what women can and cannot do.
The old man, Abdul Hakim, rides slowly but deliberately along Patenga Beach Road, a place where the city feels less chaotic yet still demanding. Trucks roar along the adjacent highway, sand and salt spray from the nearby sea.
Every young rider passing him seems frantic. Farhan speeds past, Shakil zips by with his delivery load, Nusrat glides with quiet determination. Abdul Hakim smiles at each one, recognizing the shared struggle, the sweat, the unpredictability, the risks.
Experience has taught him to ride as if invisible, to respect every vehicle, to respect the rules that do not exist. He knows the roads will never be perfect, but the act of riding itself is resistance against stagnation — physical, social, and spiritual.
Across the city, these cyclists face the same dangers:
And yet, every ride produces triumph. Arriving at the destination, breathing heavily, muscles aching — there is a profound sense of accomplishment. Unlike commuters trapped in cars, stuck watching the city crawl past, cyclists are participants in the city, not prisoners of it.
The sweat, the risk, the exhaustion — all become part of a ritual of liberation. Each ride is exercise for body and mind, a meditation in motion, a daily affirmation: I am here. I am moving. I am alive.
For some, like Shakil, the reward is survival. For Nusrat, it is independence. For Farhan, it is freedom from the monotony and frustration of traffic. And for Abdul Hakim, it is joy in persistence, dignity in motion.
Riding a bicycle in Bangladesh is never easy. Sweat drips, muscles scream, the city conspires to throw obstacles. Yet, those who ride know something the car-bound do not: there is a profound intimacy with the city, a connection to every turn, every slope, and every breath of wind.
This is the unseen reward of cycling — the price is effort, the glory is liberation. The struggle is constant, yet the satisfaction is enduring.
There is a moment in every cyclist’s day, somewhere between breathlessness and breakthrough, when the chaos of the city disappears and all that exists is rhythm. Pedal. Breathe. Glide. Repeat.
For the first few kilometers, it’s all noise — honks, fumes, potholes, and frustration. But then, without warning… you slip into flow.
The bicycle becomes an extension of your body, the road becomes familiar, and your mind drifts — not into distraction, but into clarity.
Ask any cyclist and they’ll tell you: the city at 6 AM is a different world. Chattogram before sunrise is soft, forgiving. The hills of Tigerpass shimmer under morning mist, trees are still dripping dew, and the gulls near the port are just beginning their arguments with the waves.
Farhan, the office warrior, discovered something unexpected in his early commutes — the joy of beating the sun.
There is no traffic yet. No race against buses. No one rushing. Just the sound of chains spinning and tires whispering against asphalt.
He stands at the top of Batali Hill, sweat-soaked but smiling, watching the city below. Not from a rooftop café, not from an AC apartment balcony — but from his own earned elevation.
No fuel was burned. No money spent. Just muscle, breath, and willpower.
That feeling? You can’t buy it with petrol.
The climb hurts. Everyone complains about it, but the descent?
Oh, the descent is pure poetry.
Wind rushing like applause, face stretched into an involuntary grin, speed building without effort — it feels like cheating gravity. Like the city is finally paying you back for all the uphill battles.
Shakil, the delivery rider, often finds himself laughing like a child during these downhill runs. It doesn’t matter if there’s biryani on his back or invoices waiting at the shop — for those few seconds, he is not working. He’s flying.
Cyclists in Bangladesh don’t always talk to each other. They don’t need to. Their language is made of gestures.
One day, Nusrat struggled up a steep segment near Pahartali. She was about to get off and walk when an unknown rider — an older woman on a rusty Chinese cycle — passed her slowly and simply said:
“Just a bit more. Don’t give up.”
That sentence stayed in her mind longer than any fitness slogan or motivational quote online. It wasn’t advice. It was inheritance. Passed from one fighter to another.
People sitting in cars often think cyclists ride for fitness.
Yes, fitness comes. Weight drops. Muscles grow. But that’s not the real reward.
The real joy is mental.
Cycling is therapy disguised as transport.
When Farhan rides, emails and deadlines stop mattering. When Shakil pedals furiously through traffic, his poverty, his worries — all go quiet. When Nusrat rides past people staring, she hears their judgments — but they grow softer, fading behind the whirring of her tires. Her confidence becomes louder than their opinions.
Abdul Hakim, the wise veteran, once said:
“A bicycle doesn’t just take you to destinations — it takes you into yourself.”
Every cyclist eventually learns:
By the time they reach their destinations, these cyclists are tired — but never defeated. While others slump into workplaces annoyed and sleepy from car traffic, the riders arrive radiant, alert, alive.
They didn’t just commute.
They conquered.
Every ride is a fight.
Every ride is a meditation.
Every ride is a love letter to resilience.
The wheels are already turning. What was once a necessity for delivery riders and rural commuters is now becoming a conscious choice for urban citizens but the question remains:
Can Bangladesh truly transform into a cycling nation?
Not just a country where people ride because they must, but a country where people ride because they want to — proudly, safely, and with dignity.
Sounds impossible?
So did Padma Bridge. So did Metro Rail. So did 300-foot-high flyovers through port hills.
Bangladesh does big engineering. But now — it’s time for small engineering with big impact.
Let’s imagine just 5% of urban commuters in Bangladesh switch to bicycles.
In contrast — building one flyover costs hundreds of crores, and eventually floods with more cars anyway.
But painting lanes, installing bollards, providing bike racks? Cheap. Fast. Permanent.
Many people still think:
“Cycle? That’s for delivery boys.”
“I’ll ride when I’m richer and can afford a better one.”
“Women shouldn’t cycle.”
But the truth is:
Cycling is not a symbol of poverty. It is a symbol of efficiency. Strength. Freedom. Discipline. Urban intelligence.
In Europe, CEOs bike to work. In Japan, office ladies in suits ride city bikes. In China, bike lanes move millions per hour. In the Netherlands, cabinet ministers bike to parliament.
Bangladesh doesn’t lack roads. It lacks recognition of cycling as dignity.
So here’s the question:
Who will be the first generation of Cycling Patriots of Bangladesh?
Not freedom fighters of 1971 — but freedom riders of 2025 and beyond.
The ones who say:
“I don’t ride out of shame — I ride out of strength.”
The future of cycling in Bangladesh is not waiting in government files.
It’s already happening in the hearts and legs of thousands.
Every time Farhan climbs a hill,
Every time Shakil delivers safely through traffic,
Every time Nusrat pedals past doubters,
Every time Abdul Hakim refuses to give up on his old steel frame…
The revolution advances.
Not loud. Not violent.
But steady. Tire by tire, day by day.
We are the ones who do not wait for freedom —
We earn it with every pedal stroke.
আমরা যারা স্বাধীনতা প্যারাশুটে নামার অপেক্ষা করি না —
We are not traffic victims —
We are traffic survivors.
আমরা রাস্তায় বাধা না, আমরা অধিকারী।
We do not ride because we are weak.
We ride because we are strong.
আমরা সাইকেল চালাই লজ্জার জন্য নয় — শক্তির জন্য।
In a country drowning in traffic,
We choose movement.
In a world choking on fumes,
We choose breath.
In a society trapped in judgment,
We choose freedom.
✅ Roads where cyclists are respected, not ignored.
✅ Lanes that protect, not just decorate.
✅ Schools and offices with racks, not excuses.
✅ A nation that says “Cycle চালানো মানে দরিদ্রতা না — Responsibility.”
We will ride with courage.
We will ride with discipline.
We will ride with kindness to those who walk or ride beside us.
We will be visible. We will be vocal. We will be the change that no policy dared to imagine.
আমরা বাংলাদেশি।
We ride not for luxury — but for liberty.
We ride not for speed — but for spirit.
We ride not because we have to — but because we choose to.
From Dhaka to Chattogram, from Sylhet to Khulna — the revolution will not come on four wheels.
It will arrive quietly — on two.
Pedal by pedal.
মানুষ থেকে মানসিকতা বদলাবে।
এটাই আমাদের স্বাধীনতা ২.০.
Oghene group is a Traditional Musical Group in the Eastern Part of Nigeria… they’re known for their unique and melodious sounds that’s so sweet and enticing to listen to and spiritual..
For me, the hype isn’t just hype—it’s lived reality. Every day I cut through traffic, slip through gaps no car dares, and feel the city’s pulse under my wheels. A geared bike will get you moving, sure. But on a single speed or fixed-gear, you don’t just ride—you become part of the ride. You’re stripped of excess, left only with legs, lungs, steel, and street. That’s where the magic is.
Single speed and fixed-gear bikes share a single gear. But the fixed-gear is something deeper—no coasting, no freewheeling. If the wheel spins, your legs spin. Stop pedalling, and the bike reminds you who’s in charge. Far from clumsy, that connection feels alive. It roots you to the road, teaches balance, and gives you the kind of flow no derailleur can deliver.
Fixies let you play with the street. Track stands at traffic lights, skid stops that echo like punctuation marks, even rolling backward when the city tests your patience. These aren’t just tricks—they’re survival skills in the urban jungle. While others unclip and put their feet down, you hold your ground, waiting to sprint when the light turns green. That confidence is pure freedom.
What else? They’re fast. Strip away gears, derailleurs, and clutter, and you’ve got a machine lighter and more efficient than most road bikes. Every watt you push goes straight to the wheel. But speed doesn’t come cheap—you’ve got to spin, and spin hard. In return, you gain not just fitness, but a rhythm of effort that feels like meditation at high cadence.
Single speeds? They’re the calmer cousin, still carrying the same clean lines and reliability. With fewer moving parts, they hardly ever fail you. That’s why messengers worldwide trust them: fewer things to break when life is already demanding. And the looks—sleek, stripped-down, no nonsense. Even a black frame speaks louder than a rainbow of gears.
The best part? You don’t even have to choose. Thanks to flip-flop hubs, one bike can be both. Fixed cog on one side, freewheel on the other. Wake up one morning ready to coast, or flip the wheel and face the streets head-on. That’s the beauty of one gear—simplicity, adaptability, and freedom.
That’s the hype. But for me, it’s more than hype—it’s philosophy. One gear, many roads.