A spark that could not die -Md Uzzal Hossain

Tanzil Mahmud Sujoy woke up that morning with the sun spilling golden light across his small room. The sky looked peaceful, and for a moment he felt the warmth of home and the smell of jasmine from the garden downstairs. But he knew today would not be ordinary. The streets of the city were alive with chants and footsteps, the sound of people calling for justice, for freedom, for a Bangladesh that belonged to the children who would inherit it, to the people who had waited too long for truth. Tanzil looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror and saw a young boy’s face hardened by a dream bigger than himself. He tightened the strap of his bag, checked the notebooks he had packed with messages, letters, and drawings for the children of his school, and then whispered a prayer under his breath.

He remembered his father’s words from the night before. Shafiqul Islam had held his hand tightly and said, “Son, come back safe. Your mother is waiting.” Tanzil had smiled and squeezed his father’s hand. “Father,” he said softly, “I am in the movement, I cannot come at this moment. I will return home with victory. If I live, I will be a hero, if I die, I will be a martyr.”

He had seen the fear in his father’s eyes, the trembling that his father tried to hide behind a brave face, and Tanzil had understood that fear. But he had also felt the fire in his own heart, the fire that had been kindled by the stories of those who had fought before him, the stories of students, of ordinary people who had refused to bow down. Today he was not just Tanzil. He was a promise, a voice, a spark that could ignite hope.

As he walked through the streets, he saw friends, classmates, neighbors, people of all ages moving together. Some carried banners, some painted slogans on the walls, some shouted words that rose like waves against the silence of fear. Tanzil recognized faces and called out names, sharing quick smiles, nods, and silent encouragements. Every face reflected courage, every footstep resonated with a dream that was stronger than bullets or threats.

Tanzil’s thoughts wandered to the children he knew at his school. He remembered Mitu, who loved drawing birds, and Mridul, who wrote poems about rivers and the stars. He remembered Sara, who always asked questions, never satisfied with the answers, always seeking truth. Tanzil thought of them and whispered, “For you, for all of you, we will build a new Bangladesh, a place where you can laugh and learn without fear.” The words gave him strength as the crowd moved forward like a single heartbeat across the city.

The air was thick with dust and tension, the sun harsh above them, but no one faltered. Tanzil felt his legs heavy, his chest tight, yet he did not slow down. Around him, voices rose in chants, songs, prayers, and cries. Each voice carried a story, a longing, a sacrifice. He felt the warmth of strangers holding hands in solidarity, the courage of mothers standing with their children, the determination of the youth who would not be silenced.

Then came the shots. Sharp, sudden, cutting through the rhythm of hope like a cruel knife. Panic rippled through the crowd, people screaming, running, pushing, some falling to the ground. Tanzil’s heart raced, and for a moment, fear wrapped around him like a cold blanket. But he did not let it freeze him. He remembered his words to his father. Hero, martyr—these were not just words. They were a choice. And he had chosen.

A shadow moved, and he saw a man raising a gun. Tanzil felt a sting in his chest, and the world blurred around him. He stumbled but did not fall completely. He thought of his father, of his mother, of the children of the city, of the river that flowed past his village, carrying stories of the past, of heroes who had fought before him. He whispered softly, “We will build a new Bangladesh,” as if the words could fly from his lips into the hearts of everyone who still had courage.

Time slowed. The cries, the shouts, the rush of feet seemed distant, almost unreal. Tanzil felt his strength fading, but he felt something else rising, something eternal. He felt the presence of every hand that had ever held his in encouragement, every voice that had cheered him, every story that had whispered to him in the quiet of his room. He felt that he was not alone. Not ever.

In those last moments, his thoughts returned to home. He imagined his father sitting quietly, waiting, hoping. He imagined his mother holding his little sister, praying for him without words. He imagined Mitu drawing birds that could one day fly freely across the skies, Sara asking questions about justice, Mridul writing poems about rivers that could run without boundaries. He saw them all, and he smiled, knowing that even if his body fell, the dream would not. The dream would live in them.

The bullet struck, and Tanzil fell. The dust of the street rose around him, mingling with the tears of those who tried to shield him, those who had held his hands, those who had walked beside him. He closed his eyes and whispered one last time, “Father, I am in the movement, I cannot come at this moment. I will return home with victory. If I live, I will be a hero, if I die, I will be a martyr.”

And in that moment, he was both.

Back at home, Shafiqul Islam had waited, hope and fear twisting together like vines in his heart. When the news arrived, his knees buckled, and the world seemed to stop. The pain was unimaginable, a hole that swallowed him whole. Yet in the silence after the storm, a small, stubborn spark remained. His son’s words, his courage, his choice—it was a seed planted in grief but ready to grow. And in that seed was a promise: they would not stop, they would not surrender, they would build a new Bangladesh.

Across the city, the streets were silent for a moment, the people looking at each other, tears in their eyes, hands trembling. And then, slowly, the voices returned, louder and stronger than before. For every child who had been afraid, for every parent who had mourned, for every dream that had been whispered in secret, the movement continued. Tanzil’s sacrifice became a beacon, a reminder that freedom demanded courage, that justice required hearts willing to endure, that a new Bangladesh was not a dream but a responsibility.

The children at school spoke of him in hushed voices at first, sharing his letters, his drawings, his sketches of birds and rivers. They told each other his last words and felt the fire ignite inside them. Mitu drew birds with wings spread wide, Sara asked questions no teacher could answer, and Mridul wrote poems that carried hope on every line. And in every small act, Tanzil’s spirit lived on.

Shafiqul Islam went to the streets in memory of his son. He saw friends and strangers carrying banners, chanting slogans, painting the walls with words of courage. He saw the children of the city learning that sacrifice was not the end but the beginning, that death could be transformed into hope, that one boy’s courage could awaken an entire generation. And as he stood there, tears flowing freely, he whispered into the wind, “Tanzil, we will build a new Bangladesh, just like you dreamed.”

The story of Tanzil Mahmud Sujoy spread across the city, across villages, across every corner where the youth dared to dream. People wrote songs about him, painted murals, shared his letters with the children. They spoke of his bravery, not as something distant or impossible, but as something they could all carry inside themselves. They remembered that one could fall, one could suffer, yet the dream of justice, freedom, and a better Bangladesh would rise from every heart willing to fight.

And in the quiet of every home, every school, every street, his words echoed: “If I live, I will be a hero, if I die, I will be a martyr.” The children learned to speak them softly, with pride, with determination, with the knowledge that heroes are not born, they are made in the fire of choice, in the courage to stand, in the love for a nation that is worth every tear, every struggle, every heartbeat.

Tanzil Mahmud Sujoy became more than a boy who had walked the streets that day. He became a symbol, a spark, a story told and retold, carried in the hearts of the children who would grow to build the new Bangladesh he had dreamed of. And every time a child drew a bird, asked a question, wrote a poem, or held a friend’s hand in courage, he lived again, whispering through the generations, “We will build a new Bangladesh.”