—Md. Kamal Uddin
“Sir, would you like some tea? Please have a cup… my tea is really good, just try it…”
These words were simple—something you might hear every day from a child on the street. Yet, I don’t know why, that voice stirred something deep inside me, as if it unlocked a hidden door of unspoken sorrow within my heart.
Last night, I went to Foy’s Lake on a special errand to meet Mawlana Yusuf Bhai. With me was Mannan, like a younger brother. After finishing some necessary work at the Akbar Shah Railway Staff residential area, we headed toward Foy’s Lake. Passing by the Ansar camp and along Abdul Hamid Road, we reached Khulshi Tower. The tower belongs to a well-known entrepreneur, Rashid Akhtar Munni Madam, someone I have known for a long time.
Though time was limited, I felt an urge to sit and talk for a while. Truthfully, meeting her had been part of my plan all along. Munni Madam’s home is in Mirsharai, just like Yusuf Bhai’s, and they share a long-standing connection through social work. This made the gathering even more meaningful.
In the middle of our conversation, she mentioned that the housemaid was absent, and due to a quarrel, even her sisters had not come. Yet she effortlessly turned this inconvenience into warmth. Within a short time, she prepared a variety of delicious snacks with her own hands. The hospitality was heartfelt, genuine. But what impressed me most was the tea she made. I cannot recall if I have ever had such a delightful cup of tea before. Perhaps it was my first visit, my first cup of tea from her hands—that made it feel even more special.
But time, as always, was unkind. Just as the conversation began to deepen, we had to leave. I promised myself that one day, I would return to complete this unfinished story.
On our way back, another story began.
Mannan’s motorcycle was running low on fuel. Across the country, there was a shortage, and most filling stations were out of fuel. Suddenly, we noticed a pump near the Diabetes Hospital where fuel was still available. The gate was closed, but we pushed it open to enter. Mannan went inside with the bike, while I stayed outside.
And then, he appeared.
A boy, no more than eleven years old, holding a flask of tea.
“Uncle, aren’t you going inside?” he asked.
I replied, “No, I’m staying outside.”
Then came that voice again—
“Sir, would you like some tea? My tea is very good…”
I looked into his eyes—and paused. There was something in them, a strange innocence, a silent plea that words could not fully express. I drew him closer and asked, “Do you sell tea? Why? Where are your parents?”
He answered simply, but each word felt heavy with pain.
“My father left us… my mother is there… my elder sister is married… my mother works at a doctor’s chamber… we live in Jhautola… our village home is in Sitakunda… I go to school… I study in class five… I’m eleven…”
Hearing this, my heart grew heavy. Looking at his face, I suddenly thought of my grandson Kashib. The resemblance was uncanny—as if they were twins. The same innocent face, the same eyes.
But the difference was cruel.
Kashib should have toys in his hands.
This boy held a flask of tea.
I asked him, “When do you sell tea?”
He said, “I go to school in the morning. From 7 in the evening, I come here and sell tea until 10 or 11 at night. Then I go home and study.”
He earns around 400 taka by selling one flask of tea. That money supports his education. A small family—just a mother and son—fighting a relentless battle for survival.
I see many street children every day, many of whom beg. But Mamun is different. He does not beg; he works. There is a dignity in him, a self-respect that many grown-ups fail to carry.
He said again, “Sir, please have a cup of tea…”
But I had just had tea at Munni Madam’s house. How could I explain that? Still, I offered him 20 taka, the price of two cups.
He refused.
“If you don’t drink, I won’t take the money…”
His dignity shook me even more.
I told him, “Then drink it on my behalf.”
When I tried to take a picture, he shyly said, “Please don’t record a video…”
His simplicity, his modesty—he felt like a character from a story yet painfully real.
I told him, “One day, you will become a software engineer, like Ahad…”
His eyes widened.
Then he said softly, “Sir, I need some books and school supplies… I don’t have enough money… will you help me?”
I gave him my visiting card and said, “Come to my office with your mother. I will buy everything you need for a year.”
Holding the card, he replied, “I can come on Friday… my mother works, she can’t go anywhere without a day off…”
Those words have stayed with me. As I left him, it felt as though I was leaving behind someone very close to my heart.
Even today, I wait.
Mamun will come—with his dreams, with his struggle.
I do not know how many Mamuns exist in this world—children whose fathers are absent, or present yet lost. Children who have traded their childhood for survival.
Their hands should hold toys, but instead, they carry flasks of tea.
Their eyes should sparkle with mischief, yet they bear the weight of responsibility.
If this story reaches even one compassionate heart, if even one person stands beside a Mamun, then this writing will find its purpose.
I have only one prayer—
May Mamun not get lost in the cruelty of this city.
May his dreams one day come true.
And may we learn, truly learn, to stand beside one another as human beings.