Wheels of Will: The Story of MD. Imjamul Hoque Bhuiyan | Passion Projects | Education | 56398

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?

• Cyclists get paid per kilometre.
• Transparent tracking, real rewards.
• Empowerment of cycle couriers and riders across Bangladesh.
• A leaderboard system to gamify purpose.
• Support for payouts via bKash, Nagad, and bank accounts.

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:

• Ride your own ride. Don’t follow the crowd. Find your lane.
• Fall, but rise faster. Scars are souvenirs of survival.
• Give, even when you’re empty. Kindness doesn’t deplete – it multiplies.
• Dream absurdly big. If it doesn’t scare you, it’s not enough.
• Let your wheels whisper. Sometimes, your journey says more than your words.

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,

1. Imjamul Hoque Bhuiyan—let the name claim fame.

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.