Every Kilometre, A Verse | Passion Projects | Education | 57319

The sun was just beginning to lean over the horizon when I pushed off, my wheels humming against the road. Ahead of me stretched two worlds—the quiet of green rice fields and the rising towers of the city. Somewhere between them, I knew, was my place. Not fully rural, not fully urban. Not only courier, not only poet. I am both. And on this road, I am whole.

The weight of the courier bag pressed against my back. Some would call it a burden, but to me it feels like wings. Inside are parcels—food, medicine, maybe even birthday gifts. But inside, too, are dreams. Not mine alone, but the dreams of those who wait at doors, hungry for the knock, for the delivery. Each box is more than an object; it is a lifeline. I never forget that.

I ride a Single Speed/Fixie Bike—simple, stripped of excess, yet perfect in its purpose. My chain runs tight on a 48×17/48×18 gear ratio, a choice that says everything about me: fast enough to fly, light enough to endure. I etched those numbers onto the wheel, not as decoration, but as declaration. They are part of my identity now. When I push down on the pedals, when the crank spins, when the chain pulls, I feel the perfect rhythm of 48 teeth pulling 17/18, like a drummer beating the pulse of my journey.

I smile as I ride. Not because the road is easy—it never is. The bus beside me growls impatient, honking its horn as if I don’t belong here. Cars crowd, people rush, the city swallows space. But I smile anyway. Because even in the noise, I know something they don’t. I know that each kilometre I ride is not wasted. It becomes a verse. A hidden poem written with breath and muscle, invisible yet alive.

That is why I carry a book in my hand. Most riders clutch their phones, checking orders, answering calls. I carry pages, words inked by someone who once felt as I do now. A poet’s voice alongside my pedalling legs. I am not careless. I am careful. Because for me, reading and riding are the same act—they are both about balance. One balances the body, the other the soul.

Above me, the flag of my country flutters—red circle on green, Bangladesh alive in the wind. I look at it and feel both pride and promise. This is where I ride. My sweat falls onto its roads, my poems grow in its alleys, my kilometers map its shape. Some dream of leaving, but I dream of carrying Bangladesh with me, on my wheels, in my words, through my deliveries.

To my left, endless fields stretch wide. The paddy sways in the morning breeze, simple and eternal. A barn sits quietly in the distance, the hills beyond like folded blankets of earth. This is the softness of my country, the peace it holds.

To my right, skyscrapers rise sharp and proud. Their glass faces catch the light, reflecting ambition, greed, hunger, and hope all at once. Between their shadows rumbles a bus, green and white, packed with passengers who lean against windows, tired before the day has even begun. They watch me pass, maybe curious, maybe indifferent. For them, I am just a courier. For me, I am something else entirely.

Because I ride with words.

“Every KM, a Verse.”
It is more than a slogan. It is my truth. My kilometres do not vanish into sweat alone. They turn into stanzas, waiting to be written when I stop, when I finally put pen to paper. Until then, they ride inside me.

“Delivering Dreams on Two Wheels.”
Every parcel is a dream, and I am its carrier. To a grandmother waiting for her medicine, I deliver time itself. To a hungry student, I deliver relief. To a couple celebrating an anniversary, I deliver memory. But I also deliver my own dream—that poetry can live on wheels, that a courier can be more than a body bent to labor.

“Pedal. Write. Repeat.”
This is the rhythm of my days. Morning to night, night to morning. Push the pedals, open the notebook, start again. It is routine, yes, but not empty. It is ritual. A devotion. Some people pray facing east. I pray facing forward, on two wheels, notebook waiting in my bag.

I know what people see when they look at me. A boy on a bike. A delivery man. Another rider trying to survive. They don’t see the poems forming in my head as I weave through traffic. They don’t hear the verses whispered to myself at red lights. They don’t feel the way each drop-off, each knock on a door, carves meaning into my day.

But I don’t need them to.

Because I know.

I know that one day, these kilometers will gather. These words will pile up. These deliveries will transform into something larger than myself. Maybe a book, maybe a memory, maybe simply the knowledge that I lived fully—that I rode, and wrote, and gave.

The fields and the city will always pull at me from both sides. But I am not torn. I am the bridge. My wheels carry me forward. My words carry me inward. My deliveries carry me outward, to others.

This is my life. This is my art.

Every kilometre, a verse.
Every parcel, a dream.
Every day, the same prayer:
Pedal. Write. Repeat.