The morning mist had not yet fully lifted. 'Shantipur,' a small village in North Bengal, seemed still entranced in sleep. The chilly breeze blowing through the bamboo groves signaled the arrival of winter. Although a red glow had appeared in the eastern sky, its warmth had not yet dried the dew-drops on the grass. Ariyan woke up very early today. In truth, he hadn't slept at all. He had tossed and turned in bed all night. Today is a major turning point in his life. Today, he will leave behind these familiar dirt paths, well-known faces, and childhood memories to step toward an unknown destination—Dhaka city.
Ariyan stood by his bedroom window and looked outside. Right in front was a massive mango tree, where he and his friends had thrown countless stones during lazy afternoons. Thinking of those friends made his heart ache. Sajib, Rahat, Tareq, and Zubayer—were they still asleep? Or would they come to the station to say goodbye? Ariyan remembered the last Eid when they all had a picnic under this very tree. Jabbar, the son of their neighbor Uncle Kashem, was in charge of the cooking. What days of laughter and joy those were!
"Ariyan, are you up, son?" his mother, Rahela Begum, called out softly, knocking on the door.
Ariyan opened the door. His mother held a glass of warm milk and a bowl of puffed rice. Her eyes were red and slightly swollen; it was clear she hadn't slept all night either. No one understands the pain of separation better than a mother.
"Eat something, son. One shouldn't start a journey on an empty stomach," Rahela Begum said, stroking Ariyan's head.
While eating, Ariyan asked, "Ma, where is Milli? Is she still sleeping?"
"No, she got up at dawn and was stuffing something into your bag. That girl can't stay a moment without you; God knows what she'll do now," his mother sighed deeply.
Just then, his little sister Milli entered the room. She held a small paper packet. Milli was only ten years old, but she was her brother's biggest fan. She tucked the packet into Ariyan's bag and said, "Bhaiya, don't open this now. Open it only when you feel very lonely. And remember, don't forget to bring me a blue pen and that red-ribboned diary!"
Ariyan pulled Milli close. "I won't forget, you silly girl. Just study hard and take care of Ma. Tell Auntie Rahima next door to help you with your Arabic lessons in the evening."
People had started gathering outside the house. Ariyan's father, Mr. Motaleb Hossain, was an honest school teacher. The villagers respected him deeply. He stood in the courtyard, organizing the bags. He wore an old Panjabi, which, though ironed, looked faded with age. Mr. Motaleb didn't express much emotion, but today his hands were trembling slightly.
In a corner of the courtyard, the village elder Hashem Ali and the local mosque's Maulana Saheb were talking. Hashem Ali stepped forward when he saw Ariyan. "Ariyan, it's good you're going to Dhaka. But don't forget your roots seeing those tall buildings. Our village's honor is now in your hands."
The Maulana placed his hand on Ariyan's head in prayer. "May Allah make you successful. Don't leave your prayers amidst your studies, son."
Uncle Kashem arrived, leaning on his walking stick, accompanied by his wife, Auntie Rahima. Auntie Rahima handed Ariyan a cloth bundle. "Ariyan, there are puffed rice and coconut laddoos in here. The city is a place of poison; you won't find pure things there. Eat these when you're hungry."
Uncle Kashem patted Ariyan's back. "Listen, Ariyan, my son Jabbar left school to work the fields, but you are a brilliant student. We have high hopes for you. But beware, don't let the glitter of the city lead you astray. Especially, don't fall into the company of gamblers like Ratan Da."
Ariyan listened with his head bowed. He knew these blessings were his true strength. Just then, his best friends Sajib and Rahat rushed into the courtyard. Sajib held a diary. He handed it to Ariyan and said, "Friend, we all chipped in to buy this. Write the history of your life in it. We won't be by your side, but this diary will."
Rahat added, "And hey, don't forget us. Call at least once a week. Tareq and Zubayer couldn't come because they had chores at home, but they sent their regards."
Ariyan hugged his friends. Breaking this bond of friendship was the hardest part for him.
The time to head to the station arrived. Mr. Motaleb picked up Ariyan's suitcase himself. Even though Ariyan repeatedly tried to stop him, his father wouldn't listen. "I'm still alive, son, why should you carry it?"—that was his only reply.
They began walking along the village's dirt path. On the way, they met Uncle Abdul, a village elder. He was opening his tea stall. Seeing Ariyan, he said, "Leaving, are you? Go, son, return victorious. Bring me a pack of good tobacco from Dhaka when you return."
Ariyan smiled and nodded. At the station, he met his favorite high school teacher, Mr. Shafiq. Mr. Shafiq had been Ariyan's mentor. He pulled Ariyan aside.
"Ariyan," the teacher's grave voice was unusually soft today. "The history of your life is just beginning. Remember, there are two types of students in the world. One group studies only the syllabus to get marks, and the other learns from life. I want you to be in the second group. You have talent, but you must also have patience. Dhaka is a cruel place; surviving there is the real battle. You'll find many friends there like Sohel or Shakil who will try to lead you down the wrong path, but you must remain firm in your principles."
Ariyan touched his teacher's feet in respect. Mr. Shafiq placed his hand on his head and prayed.
The train whistle sounded in the distance. The 'Upokul Express' was arriving. The station's bustle suddenly increased. With porters, hawkers, and passengers, Shantipur station became loud and crowded. Mjid Bhai, who sold green coconuts at one end of the station, cut one open and handed it to Ariyan. "Son, drink this before boarding. It's a long way in the sun."
After finding his seat by the window inside the train compartment, Ariyan looked out. His family and friends stood on the platform. Tears were streaming down his mother's face. Milli was waving her small hand. And his father? Mr. Motaleb Hossain was gripping the iron handle of the train car tightly, as if he didn't want to let the train go. His lips were trembling; perhaps he was reciting a prayer for his son.
The whistle blew again. Black smoke billowed from the engine, swallowing the blue of the sky. The wheels began to turn with a screeching sound. Ariyan stretched his hand out the window. Sajib and Rahat ran alongside the train for a bit, then stood still, breathless.
Ariyan saw the old banyan tree of his childhood growing smaller. The pond where he used to sit for hours, the old dilapidated school building—everything was fading away. A strange emptiness settled in Ariyan's chest. It felt as if he was emerging from a shell that had kept him protected all this time.
Inside the train, there was a mosaic of people. Some were talking loudly, some were reading newspapers, and others were looking at the scenery outside. Sitting directly across from Ariyan was an elderly gentleman. He wore a white Pajama-Panjabi and thick-framed glasses. The gentleman noticed Ariyan's sadness.
"Leaving the village for the first time?" the gentleman asked with a smile.
Ariyan nodded hesitantly. "Yes."
"Don't be sad, young man. Flowers don't bloom on new branches unless you leave the roots. You are going to build a new life. What is your name?"
"Ariyan."
"A beautiful name. I am Professor Abdul Hai, a retired teacher. I have seen many students in my life. Your eyes tell me you're going to the city with big dreams. But remember, Ariyan, dreaming is easy; sustaining it is hard. In the city, you might see rich boys like Farhan or Rifat drowning in luxury, but you must not forget your goal."
Ariyan felt somewhat reassured by his words. He pulled out the diary Sajib and the others had given him. On the first page, he wrote beautifully: "The History of a Student: The Beginning."
The train was now speeding past paddy fields and rivers. Ariyan remembered Neela, the mysterious girl from the village. Neela was two years older than Ariyan and in college. Last evening, she had come to meet Ariyan by the riverbank. Neela's father, Mr. Karim, was a very hot-tempered man, so they couldn't talk for long.
Neela had said, "Ariyan, when you become a great writer or a big officer, will you remember me?"
Ariyan had laughed. "Is it possible to forget you, Neela Apu?"
Neela handed Ariyan a garland of Bakul flowers and said, "The city changes many people. Don't let it change you."
Ariyan touched the dried garland in his pocket. He felt that behind him was not just a group of people, but a massive weight of expectation. His parents' dreams, his friends' trust, and Mr. Shafiq's advice—everything had placed a great responsibility on his shoulders.
Outside the window, the sun grew hotter. The villages were gradually taking on an urban look. Tin roofs were replaced by brick buildings. Ariyan didn't know what awaited him on the busy streets of Dhaka. He didn't know how his roommates in the mess would be. He had heard that seniors like Salam or Biplob practiced ragging there. But there was a firm resolve in his heart. He would not let his father's faded Panjabi or his mother's tears go to waste.
The rhythmic clatter of the train seemed to chant in his ear: "Move forward, Ariyan, move forward."
Ariyan closed his eyes. He tried to imagine Dhaka city. The crowds of thousands, the honking of buses, and the skyscrapers. Would he be able to carve out a place for himself there? Would he be able to take the history of an ordinary student to extraordinary heights?
The wheels of time were turning. Along with the speed of the train, Ariyan's childhood days were being filed away in the pages of memory. From today, he was no longer just Ariyan of Shantipur; from today, he was a struggling student who had just written the first sentence of his history.
He reached into his bag's pocket. His hand touched the packet Milli had given him. He slowly opened it. Inside was a small note and a medal. It was the plastic medal Ariyan had won at the school's annual sports competition last year. The note read: "Bhaiya, you are my hero. One day you will win a real gold medal."
Ariyan's eyes welled up. He looked out the window at the sky. A large hawk was flying, racing with the train. Ariyan thought he, too, had to fly high like that hawk. Let the storms come, let the rain fall—he must not stop.
As the train crossed a large bridge, the wind from the river ruffled Ariyan's hair. He took a deep breath. There were still a few hours left before reaching Dhaka's Tejgaon station. In these few hours, he would only think of his goals.
the first chapter of his history was written. Ahead lay 29 more chapters, thousands of tests, introductions to hundreds of people, and the alleys of life. But Ariyan was no longer afraid. He had the love of Shantipur with him and a thirst for victory in his heart.
Ariyan opened his diary again. This time he wrote: "Abbu, Ammu, Milli, Sajib—I will fight for all of you. This history is not just mine; this is the history of all our struggles."
The train roared forward at high speed. Across the horizon, the sun was now overhead, as if giving Ariyan a warm welcome to his new life.