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.
The First Road
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.
The People Along the Way
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.
Plates That Tell Stories
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.
Of Poetry and Pedals
Cycling itself writes poems.
The roads whisper metaphors:
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The uphill grind teaches you about persistence.
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The downhill rush teaches you about surrender.
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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.
The Purpose That Found Me
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.
A Story Worth Staying For
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.
ENG
