The rhythmic, monotonous clatter of the train wheels had begun to feel like a heavy burden on Ariyan's ears. After a grueling seven-hour journey, as the train slowly groaned into Dhaka's Kamalapur Railway Station, Ariyan felt a sharp pang of anxiety in his chest. Looking out the window, he saw a literal sea of humanity. It bore no resemblance to the quiet, serene station of Shantipur. Here, no one was waiting for anyone; everyone seemed locked in an endless, frantic race.
Ariyan hoisted his heavy bag onto his shoulder and stepped onto the platform. A station porter named Rehmat Ali immediately rushed toward him.
"Where to, Mama? Give me the bag, I'll take it ahead," Rehmat Ali said with a mechanical tone, his eyes scanning for the next customer even before Ariyan could answer.
Ariyan wiped the sweat from his forehead and replied, "No brother, I can manage. Thank you."
Stepping outside the station, Ariyan was greeted by a wave of stifling heat and the pungent smell of dust and exhaust. The screams of thousands of people, the cacophony of CNG horns, and the roar of buses left him dazed. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. On it was written in bold letters— Farmgate, Tejturi Bazar, Mess No. 420. This address had been given to him by his middle uncle back in the village, whose acquaintance, Moti Mia, was the manager of this mess.
Ariyan attempted to board a local bus. The conductor, a man named Zahir, was shouting at the top of his lungs, "Farmgate! Farmgate! Gate lock!"
Inside, the bus was packed like a tin of sardines. Ariyan somehow squeezed himself into a corner with his trunk. Through the dusty window, he gazed at the skyscrapers of Dhaka. He wondered—would this city ever embrace a simple student like him? A young man named Sohel sat next to him. Sohel was a student at Dhaka University. Noticing Ariyan's bewildered expression and oversized bags, he realized the boy was a newcomer.
"First time in Dhaka, brother?" Sohel asked in a friendly tone.
Ariyan nodded. "Yes, brother. I've come for college admission."
Sohel smiled thin-lippedly. "Be careful. This city shows you dreams, but it's also an expert at snatching them away. And keep an eye on your phone and wallet. Pickpockets like Kala Manik or Picchi Raju are everywhere in these crowds."
At Sohel's words, Ariyan instinctively touched his pocket. His mother's hard-earned savings and the diary Milli gave him were still there.
When he finally got off at the Farmgate intersection, Ariyan's head began to spin. There was nothing but people and machines in every direction. After asking several passersby, he finally entered the narrow alley of Tejturi Bazar. The lane was so narrow that two people could barely walk side-by-side. The stench from the open drains and the damp, suffocating atmosphere reminded him sharply of the pure, fresh air of his village.
Standing before Building No. 420, he saw a dilapidated, ancient structure. Climbing the stairs to the third floor, he met the manager, Moti Mia. Moti Mia was chewing betel leaf and spat a red stream into a corner before inspecting Ariyan from head to toe.
"You are Motaleb Master's son, right? Come in, come in. Your seat is ready. But remember, the rules of this mess are strict," Moti Mia's raspy voice grated on Ariyan's ears.
Ariyan was led to a small room where three others were already staying. A cramped iron bed in one corner was assigned to him. As he entered, he was introduced to his roommates:
Rafsan—who was coaching for medical admission and always had headphones plugged in.
Biplob—a slightly older man who worked a small job and spent his time chewing betel leaf and complaining.
And Sajid (not to be confused with his friend back home)—who studied at a private university and played video games all day.
Biplob looked at Ariyan and smirked. "Aha, a new soul! What's your name, kid?"
"Ariyan."
"Well, Mr. Ariyan, welcome to hell. Getting water here is like winning the lottery, and the cook's food is basically poison. But don't worry, you'll get used to it." Biplob burst into a hollow laugh.
Ariyan placed his bag on his bunk and stood by the window. Outside the window, there was nothing but another grey wall. The vast sky of Shantipur was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, his phone rang. The screen displayed— 'Ma'.
As soon as he picked up, he heard Rahela Begum's worried voice, "Ariyan, have you reached, son? Have you eaten?"
Ariyan struggled to hide the lump in his throat. "Yes Ma, I've reached. Don't worry. Everyone here is very nice."
Ariyan lied. He knew that if he told her the truth, she wouldn't sleep a wink. Then Milli took the phone.
"Bhaiya! Did you buy my diary? Are the people in Dhaka very fair-skinned?" Milli's innocent questions brought a faint smile to Ariyan's face. He promised her he would bring everything.
As the night progressed, the atmosphere of the mess became even more alien. Loud music blared from the next room. Ariyan was hungry, but after hearing the descriptions of the dining hall food, his appetite vanished. He pulled out the coconut laddoos Auntie Rahima had given him. Eating them alone, he remembered the afternoons back home when he and Rahat would sit by the riverbank.
Just then, Jasim Bhai entered the room. Jasim was the oldest boarder in the mess. He brought a jug of water. Seeing Ariyan, he said, "You're new, so you're feeling down. Dhaka is a strange illusion. At first, you'll want to run away, but once you fall in love with this city, you can never leave. I've been here for ten years."
Ariyan asked, "Jasim Bhai, is it possible to study here? Amidst all this noise and all these people?"
Jasim Bhai placed a hand on Ariyan's shoulder. "There are libraries for studying. But to survive here, Ariyan, you have to be as hard as a stone. Thousands of Ariyans come here every year; some get lost in the company of bad friends like the wealthy Farhan, while others grow tall by following the ideals of people like Mr. Shafiq."
Ariyan pulled out his diary. On his first night, he began to record the bitter experiences and the crushing loneliness of Dhaka. He wrote: "Tonight is very long. The pillow is hard, the room is tiny. But my dreams want to break through these walls."
By 2:00 AM, everyone in the mess was deep in sleep. Only Ariyan remained awake. Except for the creaking of the old ceiling fan and the barking of stray dogs outside, there was no other sound. Ariyan tried to spot a sliver of the moon through his window, but it was hidden behind the towering buildings.
Ariyan thought of Neela, the mysterious girl from his village. Was she sleeping? Or was she thinking of him? Neela had said, "The city will change you." Ariyan made a silent vow. He would not change. He would remain the same simple Ariyan, but he would become stronger.
Tomorrow was the day to collect his college admission forms. A new struggle was about to begin. He had heard from the seniors in the mess that the admission tests were incredibly difficult. But Ariyan had self-confidence. He knew that behind him were his father's sweat and his mother's prayers.
He slowly lay down on the thin mattress. The small plastic medal Milli had given him seemed to glint even in the darkness. Milli's faith, his father's trust, and his own stubbornness—with these three, Ariyan's "Urban History" began.
The first night in the mess was painful, but it was his greatest teacher. It taught him that the world was not as simple as his village. Here, one must take a test at every step. Ariyan began to prepare himself for those tests.