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     Volume 6 Issue 48 | December 14, 2007 |

   Cover Story
   Photo Feature
   A Roman Column
   Writing the Wrong
   Dhaka Diary
   Book Review

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Dhaka Diary

Journey of a Young Boy

I was returning home on a rickshaw after tutoring one night. The person pulling my rickshaw was a very young boy. We began chatting and I found out that the boy, Rubel, was just 14 years old and was a student of class IX. He also had a younger brother in Kindergarten. He informed me that after pulling his rickshaw till midnight he has to wake up very early in the morning and start training as a truck driver. After finishing his training he attends school and then pulls the rickshaw for the rest of the day to earn his livelihood. With the money he earns he also supports his family and pays for his younger brother's school fees. I felt sad and lucky at the same time that I was so much better off than this little boy. After reaching my destination, I paid the boy Tk 50, instead of the pre-fixed Tk 20. I told him to buy his books with the extra money. Surprisingly enough, the boy refused to take the money and asked me to pray for him so that he could go through his struggling days as honestly as possible. I was speechless and immediately said a short prayer for the little boy, right from my heart.

Md. Mazharul Islam
Carmichael College

Messages on Posters

It was a quiet Friday morning, when I was going to Gulistan from Banani on a double-decker bus. The bus was unusually empty and the passengers seemed to be enjoying the journey. I was looking around aimlessly when suddenly my eyes caught the attention of a few posters that were pasted inside the bus. The posters were in bright colours and adorned with pictures and messages. The message conveyed how a person is not expected to contract HIV/AIDS by sharing utensils and clothes with him. What I felt was that the concerned authorities should also paste posters with the messages that tells one how one would get the disease and also ways to prevent it.

Humayun Hyder
Zigatola, Dhaka

A Matter of
Life and Death

A few nights ago, my friend was going home and stopped at Bijoy Sarani signal. Looking around him, he saw a white pick-up truck filled with household items and furniture. A small wardrobe, a double bed, mattresses, tables, chairs, lamps and much more; clearly a small family was shifting from one place to another. As he looked on further, he found an identical looking white pick-up truck right behind the first one carried several men surrounding a dead body inside a coffin. For a while, he was silent when suddenly it hit him. He wondered about how after death, all the human body required was a box to live in, despite all the worldly comforts that he probably owned when he was alive.

Ekram Khan
DOHS Mohakhali

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