What have I even done with my life?

There’s a simple fuchka stall—

No neon sign, no business logo,

Just a wooden cart on the edge of a busy street

That quietly makes more than two lakh taka

On a good rush-day.

And there I was—

Stuck in a long line of hungry, tired souls.

I waited 30 minutes, not to eat,

But to pick up just two plates

For a delivery order.

People ahead of me laughed,

Took selfies, added filters,

While the man behind the stall?

He just worked—calm, focused, effortless.

Like he was writing poetry

With tamarind and mashed potatoes.

When my turn finally came,

He looked me in the eye, smiled,

And said,

“Sir, ei nen apnar fuchka.”

And I froze for a second.

Because in that moment,

I thought to myself—

“Uncle, you’re the one I should be calling ‘Sir’…”

It hit me hard.

All my years chasing GPAs,

Job interviews in ironed shirts,

Sitting through webinars about growth,

When all along—

Success was being cooked

Right there on a street corner

In mustard oil and mint water.

We’re taught to chase desks,

To climb ladders that touch glass ceilings.

But some—

They build empires from sidewalks,

Brick by invisible brick,

Flavour by honest flavour.

He didn’t wear a tie.

He didn’t need a LinkedIn bio.

But he had a line that stretched

Longer than a job fair queue.

He had loyalty,

Served hot, with a sprinkle of spice and dignity.

Everyone wants to be called ‘Sir’…

But real respect?

That doesn’t come with titles.

It comes with consistency.

With rising early.

With showing up.

With feeding a city

One plate at a time.

Respect isn’t about salaries,

It’s not sealed in office walls.

Sometimes, it’s found in—

Spicy water,

Paper plates,

And the tired, cracked hands

That never stopped moving.

And as I rode away

With two plates of fuchka

Balanced on my cycle,

I realized—

He’s not just selling snacks.

He’s serving purpose.

Look closely at this art and tell me what you think or feel…

Art is Alive…