Fiction
The Boy Who Carried a Dream
In a quiet village nestled between the green hills of Bangladesh, lived a boy named Imran. He was only twelve years old, but his eyes sparkled with a maturity far beyond his age. He lived with his mother in a small, tin-roofed house. His father had died when Imran was just three, and since then, his mother had worked at a local rice mill to support them.Imran loved books. But not just any books—he loved science books, books about stars, planets, machines, and inventions. While other boys played football in the fields after school, Imran would sit under the old banyan tree with his nose buried in pages filled with wonder.His dream was simple: he wanted to be an engineer. Not just any engineer—but one who would create machines that could help farmers, like his neighbors, work more easily.But dreams, as Imran would learn, are expensive.His school was several kilometers away, and he walked barefoot every day to attend. The books he read were all borrowed—sometimes from school, sometimes from an old teacher who had taken a liking to the curious boy. His mother barely made enough to feed them, let alone buy extra books or materials.One night, as rain poured down from the heavens and thunder shook their little house, Imran studied by the light of a kerosene lamp. The wind blew in through the cracks in the wall, but he didn’t stop. His mother watched him quietly, a mix of pride and worry in her eyes.“You should sleep,” she said softly.“I will, Ma. Just one more chapter,” he replied, eyes still fixed on the page.Days turned into months. Imran won the district science fair with a handmade model of a solar-powered irrigation system. The local newspaper featured his photo. For the first time, people in the village began to believe—this boy might go far.But life had its tests.One day, his mother collapsed at work. The doctor said she needed surgery and months of rest. Imran was devastated. The hospital bills were beyond anything they could He stood outside the hospital, staring at the sky, tears streaming down his face. He could feel his dream slipping away.The next morning, he went to the market. He took up a job cleaning dishes at a roadside tea stall. Before school, after school, sometimes instead of school. He did whatever he could to pay for his mother’s medicine.But he never stopped reading. He carried a small notebook in his pocket where he wrote ideas, drew machines, and jotted questions he hoped to find answers to one day.One evening, as he cleaned the stall, a well-dressed man watched him curiously. The man noticed Imran scribbling in his notebook during breaks.“What are you writing, boy?” he asked.Imran hesitated but then showed him. The man flipped through the pages—diagrams, notes, even simple engineering designs. He was surprised.“Where did you learn all this?”“Books… school… I just try to learn on my own,” Imran said shyly.The man smiled. “I’m Professor Rahman. I teach at Dhaka University. Would you show me more tomorrow?”That meeting changed everything.Professor Rahman visited Imran’s house the next week. He spoke to the principal of his school and arranged a scholarship. He ensured his mother received proper medical treatment. He even brought books—so many that Imran’s little shelf overflowed.Years passed. Imran went on to study engineering at Dhaka University. He topped his class. His ideas began to attract attention. His final year project—an affordable, solar-powered water pump for rural farmers—won an international award.News spread back to the village. People gathered around the old banyan tree, reading about the boy who once walked barefoot to school and now stood on world stages speaking about innovation.Imran didn’t forget his roots.He returned to his village, not as a visitor, but as a builder. He opened a small research center to train young students. He worked with local farmers to introduce simple technologies that saved them time and effort.One day, while walking through the fields, a young boy came running to him.“Sir, I want to be like you,” the boy said.Imran smiled, handing him a small notebook.“Then start by writing your dreams here,” he said.That night, under the same banyan tree, the village children gathered around as Imran spoke—not just about machines or technology, but about belief, sacrifice, and the strength of never giving up.Because dreams, he now knew, could grow even in the hardest soil—if only someone cared to water them. afford.
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