Bodmaishpolapain episode 7
— Shadows of a Restless Day
The sun had barely started its slow crawl over the peeling walls of the college when the air itself seemed thick with something heavy — mix of humid sweat, whispered rumors, and the restless beating of youthful hearts eager to escape yet trapped by their own making.
Inside the worn classroom, dust motes floated lazily through the narrow shafts of light slicing through the grimy windows. The walls, marked with years of graffiti and scrawled names, seemed to close in, pressing down on everyone like the weight of unsaid things.
At the front stood Mokbul Sir, his frame rigid, face taut with the kind of weariness that only years of discipline — and disappointment — can carve into a man. His eyes, sharp and searching, swept the room. Not a glance escaped him, not a whisper went unnoticed. His voice, when it came, was the crack of a whip — sharp, precise, unforgiving.
But across the room, in the sea of young faces, two boys stood apart—not in stature, but in spirit.
Prottoy Giringi sat with a lazy confidence, eyes half-lidded yet always observing, always plotting. His smirk was the kind that suggested he knew something the rest of the world didn't — or thought he did. The boy carried his arrogance like a second skin, but beneath it was a restlessness that flickered in the slight tension of his jaw.
Nearby, Shekhor sat uneasily, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his desk. The role he now inhabited—a shift from the cautious, quiet Montu Biri he had been before—felt foreign and electric, as if he'd been handed a spark and told to keep it from burning down everything. His gaze darted from the clock to the door and back again, like a bird longing for freedom but unsure where to fly.
The classroom was no sanctuary, just a cage with bars made of expectation and fear.
In the back, Raju Chumma lounged with exaggerated carelessness, his posture mocking the whole charade. But his eyes, sharp and flickering, caught every small movement—the way Prottoy's smirk twitched when the teacher wasn't looking, the barely suppressed panic in Shekhor's gaze.
Outside, the world beyond the classroom windows was no less charged. The narrow lanes and cracked sidewalks of their neighborhood were humming with whispered tales and unspoken rivalries.
The day held a storm in its heart.
The Weight of Invisible Battles
No one noticed when Jony slipped into the room, his steps hesitant, shoulders slumped as if he carried invisible weights. His eyes darted nervously, scanning for a safe spot to sit, but none appeared.
Prottoy's gaze caught him immediately—an unspoken challenge sparked in the dark depths of his eyes. Jony's presence was a reminder of fragility, of silent suffering. The subtle tightening of his jaw betrayed a cruel impulse. Around him, the gang shifted, ready to pounce.
Jony lowered his head, clutching his books like armor, but his trembling hands betrayed him. The quiet in the room thickened with tension as Prottoy's voice broke the silence, low and mocking, slicing through the air like a knife.
"Lost your way, Jony? Or just looking for someone to save you?" The words were soft but laced with venom.
Jony's breath caught. He didn't answer. The silence spoke louder.
The Unseen Struggles at Home
In the dusty lanes of an old neighborhood where tea stalls doubled as news hubs and every rooftop had its own rebel, Shekhor Ghaura was cooking up trouble again. Known for his gravity-defying hair and ego that strutted ahead of him like a parade leader, Shekhor was the kind of guy who believed that being noticed was more important than being right. Or legal.
That morning, he stood in front of a cracked mirror, flexing imaginary biceps and rehearsing smirks. His goal? Win over Poly—the girl who treated his charm like expired yogurt: unimpressed and slightly annoyed it even existed. Shekhor's plan was as questionable as his sense of fashion. He would "borrow" a motorbike, ride around with his loyal but perpetually anxious friend Montu Biri, and impress the locals. Especially Poly.
Now, Montu, nicknamed "Biri" because he coughed like a smoker despite never touching tobacco, was not made for schemes. His greatest fear was being shouted at. His second greatest fear was being shouted at in public. But he followed Shekhor around like a nervous puppy in sandals two sizes too big, because saying no to Shekhor's madness was scarier than the madness itself.
The motorbike "borrowing" was simple. Shekhor had seen a fancy red bike parked outside a pharmacy and decided the universe had left it there for him. The owner had gone in to buy something—probably cough syrup or worse, shaving cream—so Shekhor waved Montu over and declared, "Mission 'Impression Poly' begins."
Montu whispered, "Isn't this, like, a crime?"
To which Shekhor replied, "Only if we get caught. Now sit down and look rich."
They zoomed around the block, Shekhor revving the engine unnecessarily while Montu held on like he was riding a hurricane on wheels. People turned their heads. Children pointed. Poly, leaning against a wall chewing sugarcane like a queen chewing judgment, raised an eyebrow.
"Bike's nice," she said. "Too bad it's not yours."
Shekhor winked. "Ownership is just a capitalist construct."
Poly rolled her eyes so hard they could've picked up FM radio signals.
But not everyone was amused.
Mamun Bhai, a reformed street-legend with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that missed nothing, watched from his balcony. Once feared, now feared and respected, Mamun Bhai had spent years trying to prevent the neighborhood's wild youth from becoming versions of his worst self. Seeing Shekhor and Montu joyriding like cartoon robbers triggered every nerve in his "wise elder" body.
He came down in his signature lungi and leather sandals, flagging the boys with the calm intensity of a storm about to lecture.
"Shekhor," he said, voice low like the start of a thunderclap. "Do you want to end up like me when I was your age?"
Shekhor grinned. "Legendary?"
Mamun Bhai sighed. "Jailed."
Montu looked like he might cry on the spot. Shekhor waved it off, telling Mamun Bhai not to worry, calling it "temporary vehicular charisma enhancement."
Meanwhile, in a quiet corner of the neighborhood, trouble heard trouble knocking. Bacchu Dada had returned.
No one quite knew where he'd gone—rumors included jail, Malaysia, and a failed mango export business—but Bacchu Dada came back with the swagger of a man who'd lost everything except confidence. His rivalry with Mamun Bhai was legendary. He saw Shekhor's antics and clapped like he was watching stand-up comedy.
"This boy's got spirit," Bacchu Dada declared. "Let the kids have fun!"
If Mamun Bhai was the voice of reform, Bacchu Dada was the devil with a megaphone.
At home, the chaos didn't end. Shekhor's mother spent her mornings complaining to God, neighbors, and anyone who would listen. She'd say things like, "Ghaura's brain is made of fog and fried egg," while pouring tea with the force of a waterfall. His younger sister, smarter and meaner, made TikToks mocking his fashion sense. Shekhor's room was a cave of hair gel, cheap sunglasses, and failed plans.
Montu Biri's house was quieter but no less tragic. His father, a retired headmaster, believed in discipline and had written a handwritten list of 94 ways to avoid shame. Every time Montu stepped out, his father shouted, "Montu! Page 12! 'Do not get involved with motorbikes you didn't buy!'"
Montu replied with, "I'm just... assisting a friend in temporary vehicular movement, Abbu."
Back on the streets, the real owner of the bike came out of the pharmacy, found his ride missing, and launched a search party of one, powered by fury and high blood pressure. Word spread faster than Wi-Fi.
Shekhor and Montu, mid-show-off session near the tea stall, heard the shouting.
"Abort mission!" Montu cried.
They tried to return the bike secretly, parking it near a tree and pretending they'd never seen it. But fate, fueled by gossip, wasn't so kind. A local uncle spotted them, then another. Soon, half the neighborhood had gathered, turning the scene into a courtroom without walls.
Mamun Bhai stepped in before the bike owner could swing his sandal. He stood between the boys and the chaos, like a worn-out superhero.
"They're fools," Mamun Bhai said, "but they're our fools."
Bacchu Dada leaned on a wall, sipping tea with the smugness of a man watching a fire he helped light.
"Shekhor, Montu," Mamun Bhai said, turning to them. "This isn't how legends are made. This is how headlines are made. For the wrong reasons."
Shekhor looked down for a moment, ego flickering like a candle in the wind. Montu looked like he might apologize to the air itself.
The owner got his bike back. No charges pressed—thanks to Mamun Bhai's negotiation and the fact that the bike wasn't damaged (only emotionally violated).
As the crowd dispersed, Poly walked past them.
"Smooth," she said to Shekhor. "Next time try impressing me without grand theft."
Shekhor grinned, half-ashamed, half-proud. "Wasn't grand theft. Just...medium theft."
That night, at home, Shekhor sat on the roof staring at the stars, wondering if Poly would ever take him seriously. His sister shouted from the room, "Try not stealing things next time, Romeo!"
Montu, meanwhile, scrubbed his slippers in soap and Dettol, hoping the stink of guilt would wash off too. His father read out loud from page 45 of the list: "Avoid boys named Ghaura."
But even with scoldings, sarcasm, and a narrowly avoided arrest, Shekhor still smirked at his reflection in a spoon.
He had learned something—but only enough to get into better, bigger trouble next time.
Because that's the thing about immature boys: they don't grow up overnight.
They just learn how to run faster. Or at least borrow faster.
In the tangled alleyways of a sun-dried neighborhood where the aroma of fried snacks and gossip hung thick in the air, Shekhor Ghaura was, once again, the center of uninvited attention. Not because he'd done anything admirable—but because he was doing something monumentally idiotic. This time, he had set his sights on something bold: temporary vehicular charisma enhancement, or, in plain words, stealing a motorbike for an hour.
Shekhor, with his carefully sculpted hair that defied physics and common sense, stared at the red bike parked in front of the pharmacy like it was a ticket to glory. Right beside him stood Montu Biri, who already looked like he needed electrolytes just from imagining what would go wrong. Montu was the kind of guy whose face could spell out the words "bad idea" before anyone else could speak. He had inherited anxiety like a family heirloom.
"Montu, my brother in chaos," Shekhor said, cracking his knuckles like a YouTube motivational speaker. "Today, we make history."
"More like headlines," Montu mumbled, adjusting his fake Ray-Bans and scanning for witnesses.
Shekhor's motivation wasn't entirely criminal. It was heartbreak, ego, and desperation swirled into a smoothie of poor judgment. Poly—sharp-tongued, brilliant, and unimpressed—had, for the third time this week, referred to him as a "walking consequence." Shekhor took that as a challenge. So he turned the ignition.
They rode.
The bike roared like a lion cub with asthma. They tore through the neighborhood like royalty returning from exile. People stared. Some clapped. One man spat out his tea in disbelief. Poly, leaning against a wall, chewing sugarcane, watched with the same energy she used to watch pigeons fighting over a biscuit.
"Nice bike," she said. "Hope the owner's enjoying the walk."
Shekhor, not missing a beat, winked. "He said I could stretch its legs."
Poly's laugh was short, cruel, and beautiful. "You don't even stretch your own legs unless chased."
Meanwhile, high up on a creaky balcony sat Mamun Bhai. Once the undisputed don of the neighborhood, now an aging philosopher in lungi and sandals, Mamun Bhai had turned his fists into advice. He saw the boys, the bike, and the bravado. He also saw a younger version of himself—reckless, charming, destined for a slap.
He walked down slowly, calling out, "Shekhor!"
"Sir!" Shekhor saluted theatrically, skidding to a dramatic stop.
Mamun Bhai crossed his arms. "What part of 'don't be stupid' did you misunderstand this week?"
Shekhor shrugged. "I'm doing community engagement. Everyone's smiling, see?"
Montu added, "Some of them are smiling nervously. That uncle over there is dialing a number. I think it's the police."
Mamun Bhai sighed, rubbing his forehead. "You think you're clever. But this path leads to nowhere. Trust me, I took the same shortcut. It cost me ten years of my life and two good teeth."
Before Shekhor could respond, the crowd parted.
Bacchu Dada had returned.
The man, myth, and menace of past years, Bacchu Dada had been absent for so long that some believed he'd gone abroad, others thought he died in a fight with a ceiling fan. But he returned like a bad signal—unreliable and loud.
Bacchu Dada looked at the bike, looked at Shekhor, and then burst into laughter. "Atta boy! Finally someone with guts around here!"
Mamun Bhai stiffened. Old wounds rippled through the air like the heat.
Bacchu strolled over, draping an arm around Shekhor. "You got the fire, kid. Don't let these retired tigers tame you."
"Fire?" Mamun Bhai growled. "It's a stolen bike."
"Borrowed, temporarily," Shekhor corrected.
"Borrowed without consent is theft," Montu whispered, mostly to himself, because fear had now taken the form of stomach cramps.
Back at home, Shekhor's mother was scolding their dog, assuming it had eaten her phone charger. Shekhor's sister, upstairs, was making a TikTok mocking her brother's obsession with sunglasses he couldn't afford. Their house was a museum of broken dreams and noisy fans.
Montu's house, on the other hand, was a temple of fear. His father, a retired headmaster, spent most of his day reading aloud from his homemade moral rulebook. Rule #12: "Never accompany boys who wear jeans tighter than their future." Rule #49: "Crime begins when you say yes to a fool."
Montu was living proof of both.
Chaos erupted when the bike owner came out of the pharmacy and realized his ride had vanished. He screamed like someone who'd lost a child. Or worse, his EMI receipts.
Word spread faster than oil on a paratha.
Shekhor tried to park the bike near a banyan tree like nothing had happened, but the neighborhood had eyes. And mouths. And camera phones.
Soon, a mob formed.
"Shekhor! Montu! Stop!" a tea-stall uncle yelled, waving a spoon like it was a sword.
"Who told you it was okay to steal?" the bike owner shouted, tears of fury building up.
Montu began hyperventilating.
"I can explain!" Shekhor shouted. "It was...a social experiment!"
Mamun Bhai stepped in, just before the bike owner's sandal could make contact with Shekhor's dignity.
"Enough!" he boomed. "These two might be idiots, but they're our idiots. Let's not destroy them before they're done destroying themselves."
Bacchu Dada clapped mockingly. "So poetic. Want a medal?"
"I want silence," Mamun Bhai replied. "Something you've never offered."
Eventually, peace was brokered. The bike returned. No police called. Just humiliation served with tea.
Poly walked past the boys.
"That was spectacular," she said. "If you ever get bored of being an idiot, maybe try honesty."
Shekhor, wiping sweat off his brow, replied, "Honesty doesn't make you go vroom."
Montu said nothing. He was trying to calculate how many years in prison one gets for 'being nearby.'
Later that night, Shekhor sat on his roof, replaying the day. His sister's TikTok of him tripping off the bike had gone viral. His mother refused to serve him rice, claiming "jail food might be your future, so start fasting."
But Shekhor wasn't done.
"I'll show them," he muttered. "I'll be the next big thing. Bigger than tea stall samosas."
The next morning, Shekhor launched his newest idea: a rooftop "cloud café." It served tea, leftover biscuits, and motivational speeches to anyone willing to climb three flights of questionable stairs.
Montu was appointed CFO—Chief Fear Officer.
Poly came once, looked around, and asked, "You charging people to sit on broken chairs and listen to nonsense?"
"Experience over luxury," Shekhor replied.
She shook her head. "You're an onion—layers of foolishness and no one wants to peel."
Still, word spread. Some curious souls came. Mostly to laugh. One person brought a goat, claiming it added to the ambiance.
Shekhor, feeling like a king, decided to hire a band for opening night.
Six tabla players showed up. The goat panicked. The roof collapsed.
Not entirely, but enough to send Montu through a plastic chair and into a minor existential crisis.
Mamun Bhai arrived with his head in his hands.
"Shekhor," he said, surveying the wreckage. "What is this?"
"Revolution," Shekhor said.
"This is a lawsuit."
Montu, holding a bruised tabla, whispered, "I think my pancreas cracked."
Bacchu Dada showed up, applauding. "That's the spirit! Next time, use metal chairs."
Poly, watching from afar, scribbled something in her notebook.
"Shekhor," she called out.
He turned, hopeful.
"You're an idiot," she said. "But at least you're a consistent one."
That night, under the stars, Montu asked, "Are we... growing up?"
Shekhor stared at the sky. "I think we're just learning how to fall better."
"Same difference?"
"Close enough."
And so, with scraped knees, damaged pride, and absolutely no money, the legend of Shekhor and Montu continued.
Because while wisdom takes years, stupidity has no waiting period.
And the rooftops of this dusty old neighborhood were full of both.
Episode 8
The college breathed its usual restless breath, sunlight slipping unevenly through dusty windows, scattering golden specks that danced in the stale air. The old walls, weathered by years of laughter, whispers, and secrets, now held a heavier tension. Something had shifted beneath the surface, a quiet storm gathering strength. Rumors were fluttering like caged birds — small, frantic, impossible to ignore.
At the heart of it all stood Prottoy Giringi, who usually wore confidence like armor. But today, his usual cocky grin was uneven, like a mask slipping. He sat alone in the principal's office, the weight of silence pressing down on him as heavily as the faded ceiling above. Every tick of the clock seemed to echo louder, counting down the seconds of his unraveling.
His fingers tapped nervously on the wooden desk — not from fear of the principal's sharp gaze, but from the guilt twisting inside him like a storm. The truth was no longer a secret whispered in dark corners. The stolen question paper scandal was out. And worse, the web was tangled higher than he could see.
Because beside Prottoy, in this shadowy game, stood Mokbul Sir — the teacher whose voice once promised fairness and guidance, now stained with betrayal. The man who should have been a beacon of trust had traded his principles for a secret pact, a silent bargain made in greed and desperation.
Outside the office, life in the college corridor moved on — but not as usual. Sweety Mam leaned lightly against a wall, her eyes scanning the students who buzzed like restless bees. She said nothing, but the tight line of her mouth betrayed the storm swirling inside. Loyalty, doubt, confusion — tangled so tightly they formed a silent knot in her chest.
The air was thick with unspoken truths and suspicion. And beneath it all, like a shadow stretching over the entire school, lurked Khangari. His presence was more felt than seen. A silent force commanding attention, his influence was a dark tide pulling everyone under, blurring the lines between youthful defiance and dangerous power plays.
No one dared cross him — not because of fear alone, but because Khangari had learned how to weave himself into the very fabric of the school's life. Prottoy's closest ally, his partnership a storm that threatened to sweep everything away.
Meanwhile, Shekhor paced restlessly, his energy erratic, like a caged animal seeking an opening. Where Prottoy was calculated and cold, Shekhor was raw emotion — a volcano ready to erupt. Their clashing personalities weren't just a battle of wills; they were the collision of two worlds struggling for control.
In quieter corners, Raju Chumma and Montu Biri tried to hold the fragile peace with humor, their quick words and laughter offering brief relief. But beneath their jokes was a sharp edge — truths too painful to say outright.
And then there was Jony — silent, shrinking, weighed down by a relentless tide of bullying. His quiet suffering was a shadow nobody wanted to acknowledge. Yet that day, something inside him cracked. The quiet desperation finally bubbled over, leaving raw wounds exposed for all to see.
Caught in the tangled emotions was Naznin, her heart a fragile flame flickering in the gusts of desire and rivalry. Khangari wanted her fiercely, claiming her like a prize. Prottoy's guarded glances, his half-denials, spoke of feelings buried deep beneath bravado. Naznin stood in the eye of this storm, her every step a dance between power and vulnerability.
By the end of the day, the college was no longer a place of learning but a battleground where broken trust, raw pain, and tangled loyalties played out in full view. The question paper scandal was just the beginning. Beneath it lay a story of fractured friendships, whispered betrayals, and the messy, painful process of growing up — where nothing was simple, and every choice carried a cost.
The college corridors hummed with restless whispers — a symphony of secrets and suspicion. Students moved like shadows, eyes darting, breaths held in quiet anticipation. Word spread faster than wildfire: the question paper had been leaked. And no one was untouched by the storm.
Prottoy Giringi sat rigid in the principal's office, his usually unshakable confidence melting away beneath the cold gaze of Mokbul Sir. The room was stale, the smell of old wood and chalk dust heavy in the air, mirroring the heaviness pressing down on Prottoy's chest. His fingers drummed an uneven rhythm against the desk as he tried to summon the bravado that usually shielded him.
Across from him, Mokbul Sir's face was unreadable. The man was a pillar of authority, but today, the cracks showed. His tired eyes flickered with shame and calculation — a man caught between duty and self-preservation.
"You understand what this means, Prottoy?" Mokbul's voice was low but carried the weight of a thunderstorm.
Prottoy swallowed, the sting of guilt sharpening his words. "Yes, Sir... I took the paper."
The confession hung between them, fragile and devastating.
Outside, the world carried on, but the storm was far from over.
Sweety Mam leaned against the cracked plaster wall near the principal's office, her fingers twisting the edge of her dupatta nervously. The gossip swirled around her like smoke. Teachers whispered in hallways; students exchanged furtive glances. She was caught between roles — protector, observer, and silent participant in the unraveling truth.
Her eyes sought Prottoy's through the frosted glass, searching for a hint of the boy she thought she knew, or perhaps the man he was becoming. But the boy she saw was tangled in a web far bigger than himself — one woven with the threads of greed, fear, and desperation.
And then there was Khangari, whose reputation was like a dark shadow creeping over the campus. His influence seeped into every corner — a silent kingmaker who ruled not with kindness but with power and menace. His alliances were made of whispers and threats, and he held Prottoy tightly in his grip. Their partnership blurred the line between youthful rebellion and ruthless survival.
Down the hall, Shekhor's restlessness was a stark contrast. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, pacing like a caged tiger. Where Prottoy was cold calculation, Shekhor was raw fire — unpredictable and volatile. His eyes burned with a mix of frustration and jealousy, the sting of being sidelined in a game he desperately wanted to control.
In quieter spaces, Raju Chumma and Montu Biri moved among their friends with a practiced ease, their laughter a fragile shield against the mounting tension. Raju's jokes were sharper today, biting with the truth that everyone danced around. Montu's nervous glances betrayed the turmoil beneath his forced smiles.
Meanwhile, Jony's world was collapsing in silence. The relentless bullying had been a constant shadow, but today the weight was unbearable. His shoulders sagged under the pressure, his eyes hollow pools of loneliness. The laughter of others echoed cruelly in his ears, and his spirit frayed at the edges.
Naznin, the quiet center of a storm of her own making, moved through the crowd with cautious grace. Khangari's possessive glances lingered, a silent claim marked in the air. Yet Prottoy's fleeting looks — quick and guarded — betrayed a heart caught in conflict. Naznin's own feelings twisted inside her, caught between desire and fear, power and vulnerability.
The day climaxed in a confrontation that cracked the fragile peace of the college. Prottoy and Shekhor's clashing energies exploded into words sharp as knives — dominance meeting volatility. Raju and Montu tried to mediate with humor, but the cracks were too deep.
Jony's breaking point shattered the silence. His pain spilled out raw and unforgiving, exposing the cruelty no one wanted to face. Naznin stood at the edge, her heart a fragile flame flickering in the storm, caught between the forces that pulled at her from every side.
As shadows lengthened and the sun dipped below the horizon, the college was no longer just a place of study. It was a battlefield of fractured friendships, hidden betrayals, and the brutal awakening to the messy realities of growing up. Every choice now carried the weight of consequences, every glance a question of loyalty.
The morning sun filtered weakly through the grime-coated windows of the college, casting long, weary shadows across the cracked floor tiles. It was a day pregnant with silence, but not peace. The question paper scandal hung in the air like a dense fog — invisible, yet suffocating.
Prottoy Giringi sat stiffly in the principal's office, the walls closing in like a cage. He had never felt so exposed — every secret, every misstep magnified under the unyielding stare of Mokbul Sir. The man's eyes were heavy, lined with years of disappointment, but today they carried something sharper — a bitter taste of betrayal.
Prottoy's hands trembled slightly as he recounted the confession. The words "I took the paper" echoed louder than they should. In that moment, it wasn't just about cheating. It was about trust shattered, innocence lost, and futures teetering on the edge.
Outside, Sweety Mam stood silently by the door, clutching her dupatta like a lifeline. She had seen so much — the whispered alliances, the hidden deals. The question paper leak was just the tip of a corrupt iceberg. Her silence was not ignorance, but a protective wall built from fear and uncertainty. Could she stand up to the swirling storm without losing herself in it?
Down the hall, the corridors buzzed with hushed gossip and anxious whispers. Students exchanged glances that said everything and nothing. Khangari's name drifted like smoke — a reminder that power here was won not with textbooks, but with cunning and intimidation. His influence was a shadow stretching over the college, a silent threat to anyone who dared challenge the fragile order.
Shekhor, pacing restlessly near the stairwell, was a fire ready to ignite. His hands clenched into fists, a storm of frustration and jealousy raging beneath his calm facade. Prottoy's secret pact with Mokbul Sir felt like a knife twisting in his side — not just because of the scandal, but because of what it meant for the balance of power. Shekhor was volatile, unpredictable; the kind of force that could either tear the place apart or ignite change.
Meanwhile, Raju Chumma and Montu Biri tried to hold onto laughter like it was a raft in rough seas. Their easy banter was a shield against the tension creeping into every corner of their lives. But even their jokes held a bite of truth — the precariousness of friendship under pressure.
Jony sat alone in a quiet corner of the courtyard, the weight of the world pressing down on his narrow shoulders. The relentless bullying had worn him down until he felt invisible — a ghost among the living. His eyes, glassy with unshed tears, stared into nothingness as cruel words echoed in his mind like a relentless drumbeat.
Naznin moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her heart a complicated knot of emotions. Khangari's possessive gaze followed her like a hawk's, yet her eyes occasionally flicked toward Prottoy — those brief moments betraying a vulnerability she tried desperately to hide. The tangled web of desire, fear, and power wrapped around her like a second skin.
At home, the contrasts were stark.
Prottoy's house was a battleground of expectations. His mother, proud and fierce, demanded excellence as the only acceptable path. The walls echoed with her sharp words, mixing love and pressure in equal measure. Prottoy's confession to the scandal would crush her pride, but more than that, it threatened to unravel the carefully woven future she had envisioned for him.
Shekhor's home was chaos wrapped in noise. His mother's constant nagging and his sister's teasing filled the cramped rooms. Yet beneath the surface, Shekhor carried a deep hunger — for respect, for recognition, for a place to belong beyond the shadow of his own recklessness.
Jony's house was quiet but broken. His father's stern silences weighed heavily, and his mother's worried eyes betrayed a helplessness she couldn't express in words. The bullying at school was a secret wound, festering in the silence between the walls.
Mokbul Sir, behind closed doors, wrestled with his conscience. Years of frustration and faded dreams simmered beneath his stern exterior. The decision to collude with Prottoy was born not just from greed, but from a desperate grasp for control in a world that had long left him behind.
Sweety Mam faced her own demons — the constant balancing act between doing what was right and protecting herself from the fallout. Her quiet strength was a fragile thread holding together a world threatening to unravel.
Back at school, the scandal's ripple effects tore through friendships and alliances. Prottoy and Shekhor's rivalry intensified, their clashes no longer just about schoolyard dominance but about survival in a corrupt system.
Raju Chumma and Montu Biri found themselves caught between laughter and loyalty, their easy camaraderie strained by the growing chaos.
Jony's breaking point was near. Each whispered insult, every shove in the hallway, chipped away at his fragile resolve. The boy who once smiled so easily now carried a storm behind his eyes — a storm waiting to break free.
Naznin's conflicted heart became a silent battleground. The lines between affection and obligation blurred as she navigated the dangerous waters between Khangari's possessiveness and Prottoy's guarded tenderness.
As the sun dipped low, the college felt less like a place of learning and more like a pressure cooker ready to explode. Every glance carried weight; every conversation was a test of loyalty.
And amid it all, the question lingered like a ghost — how long before the fragile illusions shattered completely?
The evening crept quietly, but inside Prottoy Giringi's modest home, the atmosphere was anything but calm. His mother sat at the small dining table, her hands trembling as she wiped the worn-out plates. Her eyes, sharp as knives even when tired, darted toward the door every time it creaked, waiting for Prottoy's return. When he finally stepped in, the weight of the day's confession hung visibly on his shoulders.
She didn't immediately ask questions. Instead, she poured him a cup of tea, the steam curling between them like a thin veil. The silence was a heavy, suffocating thing — a language she and Prottoy both understood. Finally, her voice broke the quiet, low and trembling with a mixture of fear and anger.
"Prottoy, what have you done?" she whispered, as if the words might shatter the fragile peace. "You know what this means… not just for you, for all of us."
Prottoy swallowed hard, feeling the walls close in tighter. He wanted to explain, to say it wasn't meant to go this far — but how could he? The betrayal to Mokbul Sir, the scandal, the fracture of trust — it wasn't just a mistake; it was a mark that would follow him forever.
Across town, Shekhor was pacing in his cramped room, the peeling paint and cluttered desk reflecting his own restless mind. His mother's voice drifted from the kitchen, a mixture of scolding and worry, but Shekhor barely heard it. His thoughts were tangled — jealousy of Prottoy's hidden power, frustration at his own limitations, and a fierce, almost desperate need to prove himself.
He glanced at the cracked mirror, running a hand through his unruly hair, trying to muster the confidence he wore so easily around others. But inside, the truth gnawed at him: no amount of bravado could cover the fear that he was falling behind in a world that didn't wait.
Meanwhile, Jony's day had been darker than usual. At school, the bullying had escalated — whispered insults in crowded hallways, deliberate trips, and the cold shoulder of classmates too scared or unwilling to help. He sat alone during lunch, picking at his food, eyes flicking nervously around, hoping not to be noticed. But in his silence was a storm, a gathering of pain and confusion.
At home, things offered little refuge. His father's quiet disapproval, the unspoken expectation that boys must be tough, filled the air like a thick fog. His mother tried to smile, to offer comfort in small ways, but the helplessness in her eyes was a mirror to Jony's own despair.
Naznin's world was a constant balancing act. At college, she moved through the spaces with grace, her laughter light but carefully measured. Yet beneath the surface, her heart was caught between conflicting currents. Khangari's possessive attention felt like both a shield and a cage. Prottoy's moments of kindness were rare jewels, offering hope but also confusion. Every glance they exchanged was charged, filled with unspoken words and hesitant feelings.
The college corridors were alive with tension. Students whispered, eyes flicking nervously toward the teachers, toward the shadows where alliances shifted like sand. Mokbul Sir's involvement in the scandal was a betrayal that cut deep. Where once students had seen him as a firm but fair guide, now suspicion and anger brewed.
Sweety Mam remained a silent figure, watching the chaos unfold. Her loyalty was torn — between her role as an educator and her fear of the consequences if she spoke out. The weight of silence pressed down on her, each day stretching the fragile line she walked.
Khangari's influence loomed large — his power a constant reminder that in this college, strength often meant bending rules, and survival required alliances darker than textbooks.
Shekhor's volatility bubbled just beneath the surface. His rivalry with Prottoy was more than just competition; it was a struggle for identity, for control in a world that seemed to reward cunning over innocence.
Raju Chumma and Montu Biri, the comic relief in this tense drama, tried to keep their spirits light. Their friendship was a tether in the storm, moments of laughter and foolishness that offered brief respite. But even they couldn't escape the shifting tides — their jokes sometimes veiled painful truths about loyalty and betrayal.
As night deepened, the college felt like a pressure cooker. Every relationship strained; every secret threatened to burst free.
Back in the quiet darkness of his room, Prottoy stared at the ceiling, the weight of his choices pressing down. He wasn't a villain, but he wasn't innocent either. Somewhere between ambition and desperation, he had crossed a line — one that might never be forgotten.
Shekhor, too, lay awake, the restless energy in his veins refusing to let him rest. Tomorrow would bring more battles — in classrooms, in friendships, in the war for respect and power.
And somewhere deep inside, Jony's silent scream for help echoed in the empty night — a reminder that beneath the surface of this college, the real fight was for survival, for dignity, for a chance to be seen. Montu Biris silique
The morning air in our neighborhood hung heavy—thick with that uneasy silence you feel just before a storm breaks. I woke up with that tight knot in my stomach, the kind that's stubborn and doesn't loosen no matter how much you try to stretch or breathe deeply. The sun hadn't even fully risen, but inside my chest, a thunderstorm was brewing.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of my tiny room, where the peeling paint looked like tired tears frozen in time. Outside, the faint sounds of the street waking up started to seep in—vendors setting up, a few children's voices, and somewhere, distant, the drone of a motorbike. But none of that comforted me. Today felt different.
I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was about to unravel.
The rumors had been swirling for days now. The question paper scandal. The name "Prottoy Giringi" whispered like a curse in the corridors. I had seen him—the boy who carries the weight of the world like it's a badge—confessing to Mokbul Sir, the man who should have been a beacon of trust but had fallen into the shadows himself. I wasn't surprised. The college had never been just about education. It was a battlefield where power plays were disguised as politics, and survival often meant bending, if not breaking, the rules.
But today, the tension felt sharper, rawer.
I dragged myself out of bed, the floor cold beneath my feet. My mind raced with images from the day before—Prottoy's voice trembling yet defiant as he admitted to stealing the paper; Mokbul Sir's eyes, dark and unreadable; Sweety Mam, caught somewhere in between, her silence louder than any accusation. And then there was Khangari, looming large like a storm cloud ready to burst, his influence tightening around us all like a noose.
As I stepped outside, the familiar chaos of the street greeted me—the shouting of vendors, the clatter of carts—but my gaze drifted toward the college gates. Even they seemed to sag under the weight of what was coming. I could feel the undercurrent of fear mixed with excitement. The kind of thrill that only comes when everything might blow apart.
I met up with Shekhor—my friend, my constant—and his usual reckless grin was nowhere to be found. His eyes flickered with something unreadable, maybe worry or anger. Around us, the gang gathered—Raju Chumma, always ready with a joke or a shove, and Prottoy, who was trying to keep his usual calm but couldn't hide the tremor in his hands.
Then there was Jony.
Poor Jony.
He was the boy everyone picked on, the easy target. I saw how Khangari shadowed him, how Prottoy sometimes turned a blind eye. I knew it wasn't just bullying—it was a quiet war, one where every glance and whisper could cut deeper than a slap. I wanted to step in, to shield him, but I was frozen—paralyzed by fear of becoming the next target.
And Naznin.
She was the one who made everything messier, and maybe more beautiful. Khangari wanted her with the hunger of a man trying to grasp something slipping away, while Prottoy pretended not to care, though his eyes told a different story. Watching them, I felt the sting of my own loneliness, of being caught in the margins.
The day stretched on like a long shadow, every conversation charged with unspoken threats. Mokbul Sir's lectures were hollow now, his words sharp but empty. Sweety Mam's quiet presence was like a soft pulse beneath the chaos—a reminder of what was lost.
When the confrontation finally exploded—voices raised, accusations thrown like daggers—I stood on the sidelines, heart pounding. Shekhor's erratic fury clashed with Prottoy's raw control, Raju's laughter cracked like brittle glass, and I felt the ground shift beneath me.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But I stayed, because what else could I do? I was Montu Biri—the follower, the reluctant soldier in a war I didn't understand but couldn't escape.
That night, as the neighborhood settled under a heavy blanket of stars, I lay awake, replaying every moment. The fear, the anger, the quiet moments where I saw pieces of myself I didn't like—cowardice, doubt, hope.
And in the darkness, I made a silent promise to myself: someday, I would find the courage to stand not beside, but ahead. Until then, I would survive. Somehow.
Naznin's Soliloquy
The world around me feels like it's tipping, like the ground beneath my feet is made of shifting sand that no one warned me about. Every whisper, every sidelong glance, every secret-laden smile—I feel them all, sinking in, weighing down my chest with a heaviness that no one seems to notice. Or maybe they do, but they choose to look away.
This morning, the sun filtered softly through the cracked window of my room, brushing over the scattered pages of my notes, the half-finished sketches of a future I keep tucked away like a fragile secret. But even the warmth of the sun couldn't melt the cold knot in my stomach. The rumors—they're louder today. The question paper scandal is no longer just a murmur; it's a roar drowning out every other sound.
Khangari's name hangs in the air, thick and sharp. I see the way his eyes darken when he looks at me—possessive, calculating, but also… something softer, almost hesitant, that he tries hard to hide. And then there's Prottoy Giringi. Oh, Prottoy. He acts like the world weighs nothing on his shoulders, like his heart is a fortress no one can breach. But when I catch his eyes flicker, just for a moment, it's like a storm breaking behind calm waters.
I don't know what I want. Or maybe I do, and that's what scares me most.
In the hallways, the tension is palpable. Teachers exchange nervous glances; students lower their voices when my name or theirs comes up. I feel like I'm caught in a web spun of lies and broken promises, and every thread pulls tighter, threatening to snap.
I remember the way Jony looked today—eyes downcast, shoulders slumped under the weight of the unspoken. I want to reach out to him, to tell him it'll be okay, but the words stick in my throat. What can I say when everything around us is crumbling?
Sometimes, I wonder if I'm just an observer in all this chaos, a ghost drifting through scenes that don't belong to me. But then Khangari's hand brushes mine—a fleeting touch—and suddenly, I'm no longer invisible. Suddenly, I'm part of this tangled story, whether I want to be or not.
I catch Prottoy's gaze across the room, sharp and assessing. He pretends not to care, but I know better. There's a storm behind those eyes—a fierce protectiveness, a silent plea. He's fighting battles I can't see, battles that leave scars deeper than any visible bruise.
And me? Where do I fit in this messy puzzle?
The day drags on like a slow-burning fuse, each moment building toward an inevitable explosion. Voices rise, accusations fly, and beneath it all, my heart races—not with fear, but with something rawer. Desire? Fear? Hope? It's hard to tell.
At night, when the world quiets, I lie awake, tangled in thoughts and dreams I dare not speak aloud. I think about the future, about who I want to be, and who I'm afraid I might become. I wonder if I'll ever find the courage to speak my own truth in a place where silence is safer.
But for now, I breathe in the chaos, hold tight to the fragments of my heart, and wait for the dawn.