Chapter 2: The journey had begun
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The late afternoon light filtered softly through the curtains of Rafi's small room in Mirpur. Dust particles danced in the sunbeams like lazy fireflies. A fan hummed overhead, clicking slightly with every rotation. On the floor, Rafi sat hunched over a notebook, chewing the end of a pen cap, eyes glued to his screen.
YouTube Studio said:
Views: 123
Likes: 18
Comments: 6
Subscribers: +4
He blinked, unsure whether to laugh or scream. It wasn't viral by any means, but still — he'd gone from 41 to 45 subscribers overnight. The comments were mostly small words of encouragement.
"Nice editing bro! Hope to see more 🇧🇩"
"Loved the vibe. Keep it real."
"Pls go Srimangal or Bandarban next 🙏"
He tapped the refresh button again.
Still 123.
Rafi leaned back, stretched his arms, and let out a deep breath. His back cracked. His camera battery sat on charge beside him, blinking red. His tripod, which had one loose leg, leaned against the wardrobe.
He picked up his phone and opened Google Maps. Zoomed out from Mirpur. Then dragged the map east, all the way to Sylhet Division.
Srimangal.
Lush green hills, endless tea gardens, the quiet kind of beauty that lived in books and postcards. A perfect place for his next vlog.
But also… expensive.
He flipped through his notebook to the budget page.
Total saved: 31,000 BDT
Spent on camera & gear: 18,500
Left: ~12,500 BDT
He scribbled down potential costs:
Bus fare (round trip): ~800
Cheap guesthouse (2 nights): ~1200
Food + tea: ~1000
Miscellaneous + emergency: ???
Even on a tight budget, it was doable — just barely.
He stood up, pocketed his phone, and grabbed his canvas backpack. If he didn't move now, he'd overthink the whole thing and cancel the trip before it began.
Kamalapur Railway Station – 5:40 p.m.
The air was thick with noise and sweat. People moved like rivers, rushing in every direction with bags, baskets, and children in tow. Trains groaned on the platforms, some arriving, others preparing to depart.
Rafi wiped the back of his neck and held his camera close to his chest. He didn't film — not yet. He just wanted to observe.
A train hissed past him, the sudden blast of wind tugging at his T-shirt.
In front of the main ticket counter, the queue stretched like a slow-moving snake. He joined the line and checked his wallet.
Three crisp 500-taka notes. Some change.
As the line crawled forward, he tapped his foot, already thinking about how to shoot his vlog. Maybe a short intro while boarding the bus. Some street shots of Srimangal bazar. Quiet moments in the tea garden at dawn. Maybe even a short interview if he met someone interesting.
He didn't notice the man behind him inching closer until he felt a bag nudge his back.
"Sorry," the guy muttered.
Rafi just nodded.
The city always made him feel slightly too soft, like he hadn't yet hardened his shell like everyone else.
After nearly forty minutes, he reached the counter.
"Ekta Srimangal-er ticket, AC na. Next available," he said.
The man inside the booth flipped through his papers without looking up. "Overnight bus better, not train. From Sayedabad. Morning train fully booked. You go now or buy tomorrow?"
Rafi hesitated. "Tomorrow."
"Come early. 7:00 a.m. sharp."
Rafi nodded, took a photo of the schedule posted nearby, and stepped away.
He didn't mind taking a bus if needed. The point was: he was going.
Later That Night – Rooftop
The sky over Dhaka was never fully dark. There was always a haze of orange lights floating above the skyline, like a false sunrise stuck in rewind.
Rafi sat with his legs crossed on the rooftop of his building, camera mounted on the tripod, pointing toward the flickering lights of the city.
He hit 'record'.
"This might sound stupid," he said, voice quiet, "but this rooftop is where I planned most of this. Every list, every idea, every shot I imagined — it started here."
A dog barked in the alley below. The sound of a blender came from the neighbor's kitchen.
"I'm not trying to be someone famous. Just want to... learn something real about this country. About myself. If you're watching this, thanks for sticking around. Next stop—Srimangal. Let's see where this goes."
He ended the recording and sat silently for a moment, eyes on the blinking red light.
The Next Morning – Preparing to Leave
His mother stood in the narrow kitchen, rolling parathas while humming an old Rabindra Sangeet under her breath.
"You're really going this time?" she asked without turning.
Rafi slung his bag over one shoulder. "Yes, Ma. I'll be back in two or three days."
"Call me when you reach. Don't skip meals. And don't eat just chips and cha."
He smiled. "I'll eat real food. I promise."
She packed two extra parathas in a foil wrap and placed it in his bag without asking.
His father didn't say much — just gave him a nod over his morning newspaper.
By 9:30 a.m., Rafi stood at the Sayedabad bus terminal, holding a one-way ticket to Srimangal.
The sky was unusually clear. A good sign, maybe.
He took a deep breath, stepped into the waiting bus, and found his window seat. His camera sat in his lap. His heart, somewhere between nervous and excited.
As the engine started, and the bus rolled out of the terminal, Rafi leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
The journey had begun.
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