The Last Letter

I spent my childhood in a remote village in Bangladesh—Rampur. Rivers, open fields, bamboo groves, and scattered thatched huts painted the perfect landscape of an innocent, magical childhood. There were no mobile phones, no internet, not even electricity. But life felt fuller, every moment was vivid—far more real than the fast-paced, grey-toned city life I now live.

My closest childhood friend was Raju. We grew up together—same school, same playground, same mango tree. He was the heartbeat of my days.

Raju's house was a little farther from ours. His family was humble and poor, but rich in dignity. His mother worked endlessly, and his father was often ill. Despite everything, Raju always had a smile on his face—that smile became his identity.

Every morning, we walked to school together. Raju always arrived early, carrying an old red notebook in which he wrote stories—his own little world. I used to say, "You’ll be a writer someday."

Raju would laugh and reply, "And you'll read my stories to your kids, deal?"

Back then, I didn’t realize the weight of those words.

Monsoon was our favorite season. We’d run barefoot across water-logged fields, splash in muddy puddles, and dive into the overflowing river. Evening scoldings from our mothers never stopped us. The joy of childhood was limitless.

But then came the day that changed everything.

One rainy evening, news spread through the village—a girl had drowned near the riverbank. It was Raju’s younger sister. Everyone rushed to the scene. I was there too. I learned Raju had jumped into the river to save her. That frail little boy—he had the courage of a giant. He managed to push his sister to safety, but... he didn’t make it back.

That moment shattered something deep inside me. My best friend—the boy who waited for me every morning—was gone. I couldn’t bring myself to go to school the next day. It felt like life had stopped.

I remember going to Raju’s home, where his mother sat lifeless, her cries echoing through the mud walls. She sobbed, “Both my children went into the river—one returned, the other vanished.”

In the days that followed, I asked Raju’s mother if I could keep his red notebook. That notebook is still with me. On the first page, written in his neat handwriting:

“One day I will be gone. But may someone remember me. Let my stories live on. Even if I’m not here—my imagination will remain.”

That one line ignited something in me. I made a promise that day—I would become a teacher. I would tell stories. Raju’s stories. And maybe, just maybe, I could prevent others from being forgotten like him.

Twenty years have passed. Today, I teach at a school in the city. Every day, I see dozens of students—some bright, some troubled, many with dreams they don’t yet know how to name. And often, I catch glimpses of Raju in their eyes. My inner child still searches for him.

One day, I gave my students a writing assignment: "Describe the most meaningful memory of your life." They submitted their essays the following week.

As I sat reading through the pile, one composition made my hands freeze.

On the plain white page, in careful handwriting, it read:

“My greatest inspiration is someone who doesn’t even know I exist. He was my father’s best friend. My father’s name was Raju. He died while saving his younger sister in a village flood many years ago.”

I couldn’t breathe. My fingers trembled as I clutched the page. This boy—was he Raju’s son?

His name was also Raju. His eyes resembled his father's—gentle but deep. I had never known that Raju left behind a child.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing my friend’s smiling face, his laughter, the way he told stories. I realized that time may move forward, but some bonds remain eternal.

The next day, I called the boy to my desk. Without saying a word, I placed the red notebook in his hands.

“This belonged to your father,” I whispered.

He looked at it, touched the worn-out cover, and then looked back at me. “Did you read his stories, sir?”

“I didn’t just read them,” I said. “I lived through them.”

The boy remained silent. A few seconds passed. Then he spoke, softly: “I want to be a writer like him.”

I smiled and placed my hand on his shoulder. “He lives on in you.”

Now, so many years later, I finally understand—childhood memories are not just pictures of the past. They’re the roots of who we are. My friend may have left the world too soon, but he gave my life meaning.

Somewhere in this chaotic city, I still wait—perhaps one day, a boy with a red notebook will walk into my classroom again, smiling like the wind, and say, “Look, this time I’ve written a new story.”

And I will say to him, “I’ll read every word—because you never left my story.”