The streetlamp flickered repeatedly tonight, mirroring the trembling deep inside Shariful's chest. In his hand was a small packet of medicine, and in his pocket, a single ten-taka note. With this, he could either take a rickshaw home or buy a loaf of bread to quiet the hunger burning in his stomach.
Shariful was a son of the middle class, and his hurdles were more internal than external. Returning home meant facing his father's frail, pale face, his wife's unfulfilled needs, and the red ink in his child's school diary marking overdue fees. That red ink felt like a thorn piercing his heart every single day.
Whenever he went out looking for work, despite having the qualifications, he was turned away from the door because he lacked the money for bribes or the "commissions" demanded by middle-men. On his way back, he would see the very people who lived in mansions by bleeding others dry. Shariful wanted to scream, "Is this world only for the vultures? Do ordinary people like us have no right to live in peace?"
That night, Shariful picked up his pen. A flickering candle burned at the corner of his desk. He began to write about the obstacles that tried to stop him at every turn. He wrote about the nights he went to bed hungry, just so his portion of food could go to his child.
As he wrote, it occurred to him that these walls were not there to stop him, but to make him stronger. On his 'WebNovel' page, he used every word like a sword. He wrote: "Life isn't just about existing; life is about standing before every hurdle and saying—I haven't lost yet."
As the night faded and the first light of dawn broke, Shariful saw that his pen had run out of ink. But his resolve had grown tenfold. He knew that today, too, he would have to struggle for two square meals; today, too, he might have to endure bitter words. But his writing, the story of his life, would never end.
He slid his worn-out sandals onto his feet and stepped out onto the road again. The sun was rising, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. Ahead lay miles of uphill climbs and difficult terrain. But Shariful was smiling. He knew that after every obstacle, a new path is forged—and through that path, he would one day bring a smile to his family's face.
His writing would not stop until death stayed his hand, nor would his endless journey.