The city was a suffocating maze, and the local bus a rusted vessel crawling through its veins. Outside the grime-streaked window, the sky appeared as a bruised, smoky veil. My name is Ayan. At thirty-four, a man is supposed to have traversed half his journey, yet my ledger held nothing but a hollow, mocking zero. My mother used to say, "Stay righteous, my son; there is Someone above watching." Did she not know? It seemed the Almighty had forgotten me, discarding me like offal in a gutter.
"Fare! Pay up, Uncle!" the conductor's bark shattered my reverie.
"Here," I murmured, "it's a little short. I'll be getting off at the next crossing."
The conductor's lip curled in practiced disdain. "Save your stories! Every day, the same drama. You look like a gentleman, yet you beg over a few coins? Out with you! Get down at the very next stop."
I offered no protest. I simply lowered my gaze, realizing that my dignity was cheaper than those five taka. Every soul I had ever trusted had left a blade in my back. There was the Senior Manager—I had bled sweat for his projects through sleepless nights, yet once the promotion was his, I became a stranger. And Shajol? My 'friend' who vanished into a blocklist the moment he took my last savings. This was my reward for being a 'good man.' In this world, the only prize for virtue is a bitter draught of scorn.
I stepped off the bus. As I crossed the road, I saw a happy couple walking by, their laughter echoing in the humid air. A spiritual ache rose within me. I am thirty-four, unwed, and unanchored. Is the world truly this cruel only to me? Is there no end to this war of survival? If only I could tear this script to pieces and rewrite it—a life where toil finally yielded its fruit.
Lost in the labyrinth of my own despair, I stepped onto the zebra crossing. Then—a scream of iron. A deafening horn fractured the air. In a fraction of a heartbeat, a truck hurtled toward me, its blinding white headlights consuming my vision. I felt myself shattered, tossed like a leaf into the void. I couldn't even process the end.
When my eyes finally fluttered open, I found myself leaning against the gnarled roots of a titan tree. My skull throbbed with the rhythm of a war drum.
Where am I? I thought, dazed. Did the impact hurl me into a wilderness? Whence came all these trees?
Suddenly, a cloud of dust erupted. A beast, a titan of a bison with eyes like smoldering coals and horns like curved scimitars, was charging with suicidal fury. I shrieked in primal terror. "Save me! What devilry is this? Did the truck transform into this beast? Why is it hunting me? Someone stop it!"
I recoiled, bracing for the end. But the impossible happened. The bison screeched to a halt mere inches from my face, its hooves carving trenches in the earth. Its hot, rank breath washed over me like a furnace blast, but it moved no further.
"Did its heart fail?" I gasped, my voice trembling. "Did my scream strike it dead?"
It was then I noticed four giants of men. They had driven their spears deep into the beast's flank; sweat poured from their bodies, and their breath came in heavy plumes of steam. I exhaled a breath of profound relief. So, that is it. But I have never seen such people before. Where on earth have I landed?
This was no dream. The ache in my bones was too sharp, too honest for a phantom.
The four men, accompanied by two young boys about twelve years old, approached me. Their eyes widened in disbelief.
"By the gods!" one gasped. "Rola, what are you forged of? One strike from this Great Bison turns an elephant to pulp, yet here you sit, lounging against a tree?"
Another knelt to examine me. "Incredible! Not a single scratch upon his skin. This is the Great Bison—no man has ever survived its charge! Rola, there is a divine spark within you. To weather such a blow is not the work of an ordinary mortal."
The boys, who had perhaps once viewed me as common, stood frozen in awe. One stepped forward, grinning. "Friend, did you swallow iron? We thought you were a ghost today. You are harder than the beast itself!"
Rola? The name echoed in my mind. Why do they call me Rola? And they say I survived a bison, yet I remember the cold steel of a truck. And this body... it is small, yet it hums with a terrifying strength. Ayan to Rola... has life truly restarted? Am I finally... strong?
"Come, Rola!" a man said, hoisting me up. "To the village! Tonight, we feast on bison meat. There will be a great celebration! Ha ha ha!"
In the heart of the village, a colossal bonfire licked the stars. The bison roasted upon the flames amidst the thunder of drums and the screams of joy. I sat in a seat of honor beside Chieftain Himrodin. A young woman, radiant yet weathered, approached me with a bowl of steaming broth. Her eyes were a storm of tears and relief.
"My son," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What have I heard? How many times have I told you not to hunt such beasts? You are still small. Your time has not yet come."
My mother, I realized. A new family. At least I am not alone.
Suddenly, Chieftain Himrodin let out a heavy roar of laughter. "Lina, dry your eyes! The boy is made of stone, just like his father, Neel. Neel never bowed to danger, and that same blood gallops through Rola's veins. Is it not so, Lina?"
As he spoke, I saw a shadow fall over Lina's face—a darkness that felt heavy and cold.
So my father's name is Neel, I thought. He is absent. Is he a soldier, a traveler? Or is the truth even grimmer?
The village erupted in cheer. Boys danced before me, brandishing chunks of meat. One shrieked, "Look, Rola! I am devouring the thigh of your enemy! Will you take a bite? Or do you pity your prey?"
I smiled—a cold, certain smile. "Pity? No, brother. The days of pity are over. Today is for feasting. Today is for winning." I tore into the meat.
Later, in the flickering amber glow of an oil lamp, I stood before a mirror. The reflection that stared back stole my breath.
Thirteen years old. But the architecture of the bones and the coil of the muscles spoke of a warrior. This was a body forged in hardship. Perhaps the original Rola had perished from the blow, leaving this husk for me to inhabit. As Ayan, I was a reed in the wind; as Rola, I am a living stone.
If that bus hit me now, I mused with a dark grin, the bus would be the one to crumble.
I traced a deep, jagged scar on my abdomen. The physical body was strong, but the air around this family was thick with secrets. Something was very wrong.
I lay back on the bed, the moonlight bathing my face. From the next room, I heard the low, melodic humming of my mother.
Lina. My "Mother." She did not belong here. Amidst these sun-scorched, rugged people, her grace and her speech whispered of a forgotten nobility. Was she a fallen aristocrat? And what of Neel? I must find the truth. All of it.