By the Dense Bushes Fariha Islam Oishi “No, Ma, there’s no time to eat now—just hand me my tiffin box,” Ali said, slipping on his shoes. His college day began at eight, yet the inertia of morning sloth still clung to him. He would only wake when his mother called, then quickly gobble something down or leave on an empty stomach. His mother had already launched into a scolding, but Ali had no time to listen. He rushed down the stairs. It had only been two months since college began, and already the pressure of studies was immense. Where was the time to truly “chill”? Ali sighed, lost in thought. Some of his friends had started coaching for every subject, but he simply couldn’t endure such a rat race. He aimlessly kicked a small brick lying on the street, sending it skittering away. It was then, near the three-way intersection by the dense bushes, that his eyes fell upon it—an odd, sack-like object lying there. A sharp spike of curiosity hit him, but as he glanced at his watch, he jumped in alarm. He was sure to be late for college, and the first class was with Sir Rakib—meaning a full period standing outside, enduring the mocking glances of nearby students. The chance to satisfy his curiosity was, once again, denied. Fate, however, seemed to smile on him that day. Mr. Rakib was on leave, and Ali found himself wishing the teacher would extend his vacation. As he slid his bag onto the bench next to Noor, he offered a wide grin. “What are you muttering about, man? Did a jinn possess you?” Noor asked, raising an eyebrow. “Nah, buddy, I’m just sick of it all,” Ali sighed, his smile fading. “This academic pressure is completely draining the life out of me.” “Tell me about it,” Noor agreed, rubbing his temples. “Lately, everything has been flying right over my head.” The classes, as usual, were a tedious blur. Ali couldn’t fathom the relevance of studying the life cycle of a rohu fish. He felt smaller than an insect, his mind heavy with existential boredom. With slow, dragging steps, he began his walk home. His eyes drifted again toward the clump of overgrown bushes by the roadside. The object that had piqued his curiosity that morning was still there, exactly as before. Gathering his courage, Ali approached the spot. He had to know what the bundle—covered in tattered, ripped rags—really was. It looked like someone had dumped a pile of old clothes, and beneath them, some sort of creature lay curled up. As he drew nearer, the bundle suddenly trembled. The sound of Ali’s footsteps made it attempt to turn over, and in the very next moment, Ali leaped back in terror. “That… that’s a person!” he tried to shout, but the sound caught in his throat. “But who is he, and how did he get like this?” he whispered, his voice trembling. The figure, wrapped in burlap and shredded cloth, looked like a monstrous beast from a distance. Its eyes glowed intensely as it stared at Ali, its face partially hidden behind a dirty mask. Using one hand for support, the person slowly stretched the other hand toward him. Both legs were amputated below the knee. Ali instinctively stepped back. The man’s gaze seemed to carry the fierce glint of a wild animal, and he uttered a muffled groan, trying to communicate something. Seeing Ali’s fear, the man stopped moving. Ali paused and took a shaky breath. He began to understand. The man wasn’t trying to attack; he was reaching out, asking for help. He brought his hand to his mouth, clearly indicating that he was hungry. The intensity in his eyes wasn’t savagery, but a desperate, helpless plea for survival. Suddenly, the weight of the academic world—the tedious life cycle of the rohu fish and the overwhelming pressure of exams—vanished. His own complaints of boredom and exhaustion felt hollow against this raw struggle to live. Compassion, sharp and undeniable, replaced his fear. The man, his gaze now steady yet vulnerable, remained still, letting Ali decide. Slowly, Ali reached into his bag and pulled out the tiffin box his mother had prepared. It was warm, fragrant, and a symbol of everything he had taken for granted: a roof, a bed, a meal, a mother’s care. Ali knelt on the pavement—not too close, but close enough. He opened the box and gently pushed it forward. The man’s eyes softened instantly. He reached for the food with slow, almost reverent movements. Ali watched him eat, noticing how the intensity of despair was replaced, even if briefly, by the quiet dignity of relief. In that silent moment, a profound truth settled over him. He had been obsessing over what he lacked—freedom and relaxation—while ignoring the privileges he already had. Ali waited until the man finished eating. As he took the box back, their fingers brushed—a brief, startling contact between two worlds—and in that moment, Ali knew what to do. He reached for his worn phone, his fingers still shaking, and dialed the number of his local mosque’s relief committee—a number his mother had taught him. “Assalamu alaikum,” he stammered, his heart pounding, “I found someone near the college intersection. He needs permanent help. He has no legs and is living in terrible conditions. Please do something.” They promised to come the next morning. Ali didn’t stop there; he called Noor and said, “Forget the homework, man. Come to my house tomorrow morning. A life needs our help. It’s urgent.” He hung up, his heart calmer now, filled with purpose instead of panic. Ali stood up, looked at the man one last time, and offered a silent promise through his eyes. He had nothing more to give today, but he had committed himself to doing more. He walked the rest of the way home, quietly opened the door, and placed the tiffin box on the counter. The metal was still faintly warm, but now he noticed tiny specks of dust clinging to its edges—dust from the roadside, from where the man had been lying. He could wipe the dust away, but the memory—the life-altering truth he had witnessed—would remain forever, etched deeply into his soul. Ali realized he had not only shared his food, but also his world. In return, the man had taught him that life is not about what we lack, but about recognizing the value of what we already have. Ali knew he had learned more from that roadside encounter than weeks of classroom lessons could ever teach him. And this was not the end—he would return the next day. His true education had just begun. Class: 11 Group: Science, Govt. Edward College, Pabna.