To read prologue click here.
Looking through the window, Ajit noticed a spot where the rain seemed to pour in a strange shade. The color of joy! he thought. But no—looking more carefully, it wasn’t joy. It was something else, something even the finest painters might fail to capture on canvas.
Then what was it that he saw? Perhaps it was the emptiness of his own heart, the passage of time, a feeling that went beyond his imagination.
“Why am I thinking like this?” he asked himself with a faint smile. Is there really any color of rain? How strange I am. Perhaps I just need a sound sleep once again. Let me try… let me dream again, just once more.
But suddenly, his phone began to vibrate, pulling him back from thought to reality. The screen lit up.
“Oh, God!” Ajit muttered, “I should get ready for the office. Even on a holiday, I have to be there—urgent project, first day of the week. And… Mrs. Zaman is calling.”
He sighed. He knew what this meant. Most likely, she wouldn’t be able to come to the office and would pass her assignments on to him. Still, he answered the call politely.
“Good morning, Apu. Is there any issue that you called me so early?”
On the other end, Mrs. Zaman’s voice carried both apology and concern.
“Ajit, I’m really sorry. I may not make it to the office before noon. Lipu—my younger son—has caught a cold, and his father had to rush to Savar for an urgent matter. Once he returns, I’ll start for the office. Could you please manage things until then? Will you help me out?”
Ajit’s reply came with his usual calmness and respect.
“Of course, Apu. Don’t worry. Take care of our little champion Lipu. I’ll handle things at the office.”
Mrs. Zaman hesitated for a moment, then teased lightly,
“But Ajit, aren’t you still in bed?”
Ajit chuckled softly.
“No, Apu. I’ll be at the office in thirty minutes. No need to worry. Now, if you’ll excuse me—I’m in a bit of a hurry. Bye for now.”
Without waiting for further protest, Ajit ended the call and hurried toward the bathroom.
On the other side, Mrs. Zaman put her phone down and thought to herself, Truly, that boy is well-mannered and dependable. A rare one these days.
If someone were to sketch a boy like Ajit, they might draw him like this:
He was, in every way, an ordinary boy. Average in looks, average in build, but with a heart that quietly longed to be noticed—not by the whole world, but by the people who mattered: his seniors, his neighbors, his teachers. And, in many ways, he succeeded. They spoke kindly of him: a good boy, a good student, but not so good either to be a golden A+ student.
He carried himself with the politeness expected of someone raised to respect both people and place. He spent his afternoons in quiet pursuits—reading books stacked high on his desk, painting gentle sketches of rivers and trees, sometimes losing himself in the deep concentration of a chessboard. His victories in chess weren’t loud, but steady, built on patience and foresight—traits that reflected who he was.
Friends? He had a few, carefully chosen, the kind who understood his silences as much as his words. But in school and college, girls remained at a distance—more a mystery than a memory. It wasn’t until university that things shifted, when group projects and academic debates brought a few female classmates into his circle. They were friendly, but never more than that. He kept his heart guarded, perhaps even from himself. Maybe no girl ever truly felt for him—or perhaps they simply never saw him as the boyfriend type.
Life at the public university in Bangladesh was never simple. Student politics loomed large in every hallway, every tea stall, every classroom. And somehow, though he had no wish for it, his name often found its way into their circles. He was too visible, too familiar a face to be ignored. Each political party wanted him—his clean reputation, his approachable nature, his lack of enemies. He had the kind of presence that made everyone feel he was on their side, even when he stood with none.
But he never gave in. He refused every offer, gently but firmly, until it became known: he was the boy who belonged to no one, yet was respected by all. A rare figure in a campus divided by lines of loyalty.
Still, beneath this quiet recognition, he remained alone in ways no one could see. He had earned the love of his peers, the respect of his teachers, the admiration of his neighbors. But what he truly longed for—the one connection that could pierce the solitude of his heart—was yet to come.
And he did not know how soon it would arrive.
