Enjoy My Life

I’ve never had a fancy life. No golden spoons or shiny things. Just muddy village paths, the scent of wet soil, and a heart full of restless dreams. I grew up in a quiet village where even the wind seemed to whisper old stories. My family didn’t have much. Our little house leaned a bit when it rained too hard, but it was home.

Even when things were tough, I found small ways to enjoy life.

Like dancing in the rain when the monsoon came crashing down. Or sharing half a guava with my best friend, Rupa, under the old banyan tree behind our house. We’d lie on the grass, look up at the sky, and talk about places we’d never been. “One day,” I’d tell her, “we’ll see the world.”

But life doesn’t always wait for dreams.

When I was thirteen, my father fell sick. Really sick. My mother worked endlessly, and I took on responsibilities I didn’t quite understand yet. Waking up before the sun, feeding the chickens, walking my little brother to school—it became a rhythm I didn’t choose, but I followed anyway.

And still, I whispered to myself: "One day."

Years later, that “one day” came. I got a scholarship to study in Dhaka. It felt unreal. My mother packed me some warm parathas and kissed my forehead. “Enjoy your life,” she said with tears in her eyes. “Don’t forget to smile.”

Dhaka was loud, messy, and nothing like my village. At first, I hated it. The buses honked too much. The people walked too fast. I didn’t know how to cross roads or order tea from a stall. But slowly, I adjusted. Found comfort in the chaos.

My world began to expand. I made friends. Ate way too many plates of biryani. Learned how to stay up all night studying, then nap during class. I failed some exams. I passed others. Fell in love with city lights. And though I missed my village, I started to love who I was becoming.

Then came Aryan.

He wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met. A street photographer with messy hair, always carrying an old film camera. He asked to take my photo once while I was buying books from a footpath.

“You look like you’ve lived stories,” he said.

We started talking. Then meeting often. Then never stopped. With Aryan, life felt lighter. He taught me how to frame a moment, how to pause and really look at the world. We spent weekends in tucked-away cafes, arguing over poetry and watching indie films nobody else seemed to care about.

He was magic.

But magic doesn’t last forever, does it?

Aryan got sick. The kind of sick that steals your time while you’re still learning to live. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stayed. And he—despite everything—smiled and said, “Let’s enjoy what we’ve got.”

So we did.

We wrote down a bucket list on a napkin. Watched the sun dip into the sea at Cox’s Bazar. Took rickshaw rides through old towns. Laughed over cheap street food and cried under the stars.

When he passed, the silence was loud.

I stayed in bed for three days. Didn’t eat. Didn’t talk. Didn’t move. The world kept turning, and I hated it for that.

But then one morning, I heard his voice in my head. Soft. Calm. “Enjoy your life, Anika. You’re still here.”

That day, I made tea. Sat by the window. Watched the sun rise. And cried. But it was a different kind of crying. The healing kind.

Now, I run a little creative agency. Nothing fancy, but it pays the bills. I still travel, take photos, write stories. I laugh loudly, cry openly, love deeply. And I always carry Aryan’s old camera. It reminds me of where I came from—and what I survived.

People ask me sometimes, “How do you stay so happy?”

I tell them the truth: I’m not always happy. But I choose joy. Every single day. In little ways. In quiet moments. Because that’s what life is—a collection of small, fleeting moments. And I don’t want to miss a single one.

So yes, I enjoy my life.

Fully. Wildly. Unapologetically.