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Farmers collecting the water lilies in the Satla marshland near Barishal, Bangladesh. Here farmers collected water lilies using boats over flooded land designated to grow the crop. Waterlilies grow abundantly in the village which is situated 40 miles from the city of Barisal, Bangladesh. It is known as the capital of water lilies or Shapla, the national flower of Bangladesh. The whole village is engaged in the cultivation of the flower. The workers start very early in the morning at 6am and work through the day. “Every flower is carefully hand picked and collected inside the farmers’ little wooden boat. The water lilies from a 10,000 acre canal and wellands area. Growing and harvesting the lilies is a community effort, and farmers sell the flowers in local markets. They are not just bought for their looks, they’re also valued in traditional Ayurvedic therapies for their medicinal properties. And it is widely used as a vegetable

In Panchagarh, northern Bangladesh, farmers harvest fresh red chilies and spread them across open fields to dry in the sun. Throughout the day they turn and line the chilies for quick, even drying before sorting and bagging. The scarlet expanse shows a seasonal rhythm—and the labor behind a staple spice.

A train passes through red chilies left to dry in the open fields. From above, it looks as if a passenger train is racing along a red carpet.

In the northern district of Panchagarh, Bangladesh, farmers harvest fresh red chilies and spread them out in open fields and on vacant spaces along the railway tracks to dry under the sun. Throughout the day, they turn the chilies over to ensure faster drying and arrange them neatly in rows. When a train passes by, the view from above creates a breathtaking scene — as if the train is racing across a vibrant red carpet.

WHEELS…
The city does not wait for anyone. Its pulse is constant, throbbing with engines, horns, and hurried footsteps. For most people, the city is an obstacle, something to endure on the way to work or school. For me, the city is a map of endless roads, lanes, and shortcuts. It is a stage. And my bicycle, my two-wheeled companion, is both the script and the instrument.

When I grip the handlebars, the world shrinks to a balance between rhythm and breath. My cycle is not just steel, rubber, and chain – it is freedom sculpted into form. It asks for my legs, my lungs, my sweat. In return, it gives me wings.

I remember my first long ride vividly, years ago. The road stretched from the city gate to the edges of Feni, a ribbon of asphalt unrolling under the sun. My legs burned, my throat dried, but my heart refused to slow. Each push of the pedal was an argument against stopping. I realized then that cycling was not only transport. It was a conversation with endurance, a dialogue between human and machine.

Over the years, my wheels became witnesses to everything: dawn’s pale light brushing over empty streets, the sharp sting of monsoon rain against my cheeks, the loneliness of midnight rides where even the dogs seemed to sleep. I learned the physics of motion by feel – the way a bike climbs when you lean forward, the way it surrenders to gravity downhill, the way it slices through wind when you find your cadence.

But wheels also taught me humility. They reminded me that speed is not always under my control. A sudden puncture, a careless driver, a crack in the road – all could bring me to a halt. Yet in those halts, I found patience. Fixing a puncture by the roadside with grease-stained fingers under the curious gaze of children taught me to accept slowness. Life, too, has its punctures.

And still, I return to the saddle each day, because nothing feels as honest as the hum of a chain pulling me forward.

Some people chase wealth. Others chase fame. I chase kilometers. I log them on Strava not to boast, but to measure the dialogue I’ve had with the road. A day without pedalling feels incomplete, as though silence has settled where music should be.

For me, wheels are not just circles of rubber and metal. They are circles of life, turning endlessly, reminding me that motion is existence.

WORDS…
If wheels carry my body, words carry my soul.

I am not a writer who sits in a quiet room with a cup of tea, waiting for inspiration. My poems are born on the road, in the friction of tires against asphalt, in the brief pauses at red lights, in the sigh of wind brushing past my ears.

There is something about cycling that sharpens the senses. Colours seem brighter when you are not separated from the world by glass windows. Sounds cut deeper when your only engine is breath. And in that heightened awareness, words arrive uninvited.

On a morning ride, the city is a poem of contrasts: the street vendor lighting his stove while office workers rush past, the sleepy rickshaw puller yawning as buses honk impatiently, the stray dog stretching lazily beside an overflowing drain. I do not just see these things; I translate them. The rickshaw puller becomes a metaphor for resilience, the dog a symbol of quiet defiance.

I once scribbled a verse on the back of a delivery receipt after a customer signed for his parcel. He noticed, raised an eyebrow, and asked, “Do you always write?”
“Only when the road speaks,” I said.

Another time, while delivering coffee to a young doctor, I found myself captivated by her curiosity. She asked about my cycling, about why I chose this life. That night, I wrote her a poem about healing – not with stethoscopes, but with words. I never gave it to her, but writing it healed me in ways I didn’t expect.

Words are also survival. When exhaustion gnaws at my legs and the city seems endless, I recite lines in my head. They become mantras, small fires that push me forward. Sometimes I whisper them under my breath, and people think I’m talking to myself. In truth, I’m talking to the road, keeping myself alive.

Poetry is my hidden delivery, tucked in between parcels of food and medicine. Customers never see it, but it travels with me, sealed inside my heart.

DELIVERIES…
Most people see deliveries as transactions: order placed, order received. For me, deliveries are stories.

Take the old man in Agrabad who orders the same box of medicine every month. He greets me with a smile that cracks through his wrinkles, thanks me as though I carried more than just pills. For him, I am not a courier—I am a lifeline.

Or the student in a dorm room, bleary-eyed after an all-night study session, waiting for fast food like it’s salvation. When I hand him his meal, I hand him energy, comfort, relief.

Then there are the families waiting for Iftar boxes during Ramadan. Riding against time, weaving through traffic with dozens of parcels strapped to my bag, I feel the pressure not just of hunger, but of expectation. They are counting minutes, waiting for that knock on the door before Maghrib. Delivering those meals feels like delivering hope itself.

Deliveries also carry rain, sweat, and fatigue. I remember one monsoon evening when water rose knee-deep in the streets. Cars stalled, rickshaws floated like helpless boats. I pedaled through the flood, shoes soaked, bag clutched above water. When I finally reached the customer, she gasped at my drenched state. But when she saw the food dry inside, she smiled and said, “You saved my evening.” That smile was worth more than any tip.

Each delivery binds me to lives I will never fully know. Hundreds of doors, hundreds of faces, hundreds of moments. They forget me after minutes. I remember them for days.

My bike carries parcels, but my heart carries their weight.

Wheels… Words,,. Deliveries…
At first glance, they seem separate. Wheels belong to motion. Words belong to imagination. Deliveries belong to duty. Yet in my life, they form a single braid.

The wheels teach me discipline, the words give me meaning, the deliveries connect me to others. Without wheels, I would not reach the city’s corners. Without words, I would not survive the silence of fatigue. Without deliveries, I would not belong to the city at all.

Some people call me just a courier. Others call me a cyclist. A few know me as a poet. I am all three, at once. My life is not divided; it is woven.

When I ride, I am not only moving a parcel. I am writing invisible poems on the road. I am delivering fragments of myself with every kilometre.

One day, perhaps, I will ride beyond the city, beyond even Tetulia to Teknaf, carrying nothing but my own words as cargo. But until then, I remain here, in these streets, living in the intersection of wheels, words, and deliveries.

Because in the end, life itself is a delivery. We carry it carefully, through storms and sunshine, from door to door, until we arrive at our final destination.

And if I can leave behind a few words, whispered through the turning of my wheels, then my deliveries will have been complete.

Wheels. Words. Deliveries.

Wheels turn,
Silent circles carving the city’s breath,
Each spoke catching the first light of dawn,
Each revolution a vow
Forward, forward,
Never retreating,
Only carrying weight,
Only carrying stories.

The road is not smooth;
It ripples with cracks,
It hums with engines impatient behind me,
It shouts in horns,
Yet the wheels answer softly,
With rhythm,
With persistence,
With a music no one else hears.

On these wheels,
I am more than a courier.
I am a pilgrim of streets,
A messenger without a shrine,
A body propelled by hunger and hope,
Measuring my life in kilometers,
Marking my hours in chain grease
And the ache of thighs that refuse surrender.

And while the city swallows me whole,
Words rise,
Like small flames between teeth.
They arrive uninvited
At red lights,
On bridges,
Beside drains swollen with rain.
They perch on handlebars,
Flutter in my hair,
Etch themselves against the sweat
Running down my temples.

Words are my hidden cargo,
Tucked beneath food boxes,
Folded between receipts.
Customers never see them,
But I deliver poems to myself,
Each stanza a breath,
Each line a bandage
For wounds no doctor names.

Sometimes a smile at the door
Becomes a metaphor.
Sometimes a thank-you whispered shyly
Becomes a verse I recite for days.
Even the frown of someone impatient
Becomes ink in my veins.
This city feeds me its dictionary
In scraps of human exchange,
And I carry it
Quietly, constantly,
As though words were parcels too.

Deliveries
The heart of my orbit,
The axis on which the wheels spin.
Medicine to an old man
Who greets me like kin,
Food to a student drowning in books,
Iftar boxes balanced against the clock
While the sky bruises into sunset.

Every parcel is more than paper,
More than plastic bags,
More than cardboard.
It is a hand stretched unseen,
A need answered by motion,
A thread that ties me to strangers.

And though they forget my face
After the door closes,
I remember.
I carry their hunger,
Their relief,
Their small sighs of gratitude.
The city does not know it,
But I ride through its veins
Like blood.

Wheels.
Words.
Deliveries.

Not three things,
But one braid.
The wheels keep me alive,
The words keep me human,
The deliveries keep me connected.

Each day I mount the saddle,
I write another invisible poem
On the roads of my city.
Every mile a stanza,
Every stop a line break,
Every delivery
A full stop
That prepares me to begin again.