A Dream Dashed -Md Masud Rana

In the quiet village of Dorjipara in Chattogram, there once lived a boy named Ismamul Haque. People called him “Ismam.” He was the kind of son every parent wished for — kind, brave, and full of dreams. He never shouted, never complained, and never came home without a smile, even if he had to skip lunch to save money.

Ismam’s childhood was like walking barefoot on a gravel road — tough and painful, but he kept walking anyway.

When he was just ten years old, the biggest storm of his life came crashing in — his father, Nurul Haque, passed away. No one saw it coming. His mother, Shaheda Begum, cried for days. Ismam didn’t cry in front of her, though. He would quietly go to the small pond behind their bamboo house, sit under the guava tree, and let his tears fall into the water so no one could see.

Poverty came knocking soon after. Their roof leaked, their rice stock ran out, and the lantern often went dark by nightfall because they couldn’t afford oil. Yet, little Ismam would always say, “One day I will fix everything, Maa. I will make you proud.”

Years passed. Ismam grew taller and more responsible. He didn’t go to college after school — he couldn’t afford it. Instead, he left his village and went to Dhaka, the capital, in 2023. He was just 18.

He took a job at a jewelry shop in Chawkbazar. The work was hard, the hours long, but he never complained. His mother would often get voice messages on her cheap button phone:

“Maa, I saved 2000 taka this month. Don’t spend much. Keep some for your medicine.”

“Maa, I saw a picture of Malaysia today. One day, I’ll work there. I’ll build you a brick house with a strong tin roof.”

Ismam would even skip meals so he could send more money home. Every little thing he did was for his mother — every breath, every bead of sweat, every coin he saved.

But life, sometimes, is crueler than any villain in a storybook.

In July 2024, the students in Bangladesh stood up against discrimination and injustice. The movement spread like fire across the country. Young people, just like Ismam, were tired of being unheard, tired of being treated unfairly.

Ismam wasn’t a political leader. He didn’t carry any flag. But he had a heart that couldn’t bear injustice. When the students called for support, he joined. He believed in fairness, and more than anything, he believed in the courage of youth.

On the morning of August 5, 2024, he left his tiny rented room in Chawkbazar. In his pocket was a folded letter he had written to his mother the night before.

“Maa, I may walk with them tomorrow. If anything happens, don’t cry. I only want you to be proud of me.”

That day, the streets of Dhaka were filled with students. They were not angry — they were hopeful. They sang songs. They shouted slogans about justice and dignity. Ismam walked quietly with them, holding nothing but hope in his eyes.

But just as the crowd reached Chankharpul, everything changed.

Tear gas filled the air. Rubber bullets flew. Then came the sound of real gunfire. Panic. Screams. Blood.

A bullet tore through Ismam’s stomach and exited through his back. He fell to the ground. His hands, once full of dreams, reached toward the sky as if trying to catch something invisible.

Strangers — brave, kind strangers — tried to carry him to Dhaka Medical College Hospital. But the doors didn’t open. The nurses didn’t come. The beds didn’t welcome him.

He was sent back. Without treatment. Without mercy.

He died shortly after. A dreamer turned into a number. A headline. A statistic.

When the villagers brought his body back to Dorjipara, wrapped in a white shroud, his mother didn’t scream. She just knelt beside him, placed her trembling hand on his cold forehead, and whispered,

“You went to Dhaka to build me a house. You came back in a box. Oh my son, my heart. You did not deserve this.”

She then held up the letter he had written — smudged with her tears.

That day, even the skies over Dorjipara cried. The guava tree near their house lost half its leaves.

Now, every evening, Shaheda Begum sits alone outside her broken house, holding the shirt her son last wore. She talks to it like he’s still inside it.

“You remember, Ismam? You said you’d take me abroad one day. Now I can’t even afford a bus ride to the city.”

No one speaks when they pass by. Even the children in the village now know what sacrifice means. They whisper stories about “the boy who wanted to build a house for his mother.”

And sometimes, they stop under the guava tree, close their eyes, and imagine a smiling boy holding bricks made of dreams.