A survivor's story.

If someone asked me to describe my life in one image, I would probably choose a quiet night, rain falling steadily outside, a dim light somewhere in the distance, and a person sitting by the window thinking about the world.

A person's real life does not begin with breath. It begins the moment a question slips under the skin and refuses to leave. Mine arrived on a monsoon morning, standing barefoot while rain hammered like impatient fingers.

The question never shouted. It simply stayed, growing quieter and heavier with every year.

I love watching rain the way some people love watching fireworks. If it begins raining, I often find myself standing by a window or stepping outside just to feel it. When life feels heavy, rain helps me think. When life feels joyful, rain somehow deepens that joy.

My sister - who now lives somewhere in the sky - loved rain too. She was sick. But she still wanted to be outside with me. Whenever the rain arrived, smiling with a kind of stubborn joy despite the suffering she carried. That smile remains one of the last memories I hold of her.

My other two sisters are still here, and their favorite hobby seems to be teasing me relentlessly. Strangely enough, that teasing is one of the happiest parts of my life.

Our house was unmistakably middle class. And like many middle-class homes in South Asia, it lived under a gentle but firm conservatism. Rules existed. Boundaries existed. Discipline existed. And of course, shouting, arguments, and the occasional family drama. At the time those rules sometimes felt suffocating. Later, I realized they had also protected me.

Middle-class life teaches quiet lessons that wealth often hides - how to adjust, how to wait, how to survive disappointment, how to value effort over image. When the real world eventually throws its inevitable bricks at you, those lessons begin to make sense.

Evenings in our home often carried music. My mother would sing Bengali songs with a calm voice that somehow turned ordinary evenings into something sacred. My aunts would join her, their voices weaving together like two rivers meeting. And occasionally my sister would burst in laughing, ruining the harmony and making the entire house erupt in joy. Looking back now, I realize something important. Family is never perfect harmony. It is a messy orchestra. But somehow the music survives.

I was never the classic top student chasing prestige. In those same evenings, under the guise of homework, I escaped into hidden worlds. I devoured Tin Goenda and Masud Rana novels, pages folded small enough to slip beneath a textbook - a classic boy's rebellion, imagining myself as Robin Milford one day, sharp and fearless, dodging shadows like a pro; or as Topshe the next, wide-eyed apprentice to Feluda's brilliant deductions.

I idolized Byomkesh Bakshi's unflappable logic and Sherlock Holmes' piercing observation, practicing it in secret: noting the subtle shift in a neighbor's posture during a lie, or the way a vendor's eyes lit when bargaining. Parents caught me more than once, the scolding sharp and swift, but even then, under feigned remorse and a stinging cheek, I hid a grin.

Those adventure tales sparked something enduring: a fascination with observation as the key to unlocking human mysteries. They taught me that every person is a locked room, and force never opens it - only patient attention does.

As I entered my twenties, I found myself in Samaresh Majumdar's Animesh from his novels like Kaalbela or Satyakam - that restless, introspective young man, overthinking his way through unraveling dreams, too sensitive for the world's edges yet too stubborn to avert his gaze. Animesh became a mirror: he showed me that maturity is not armor against pain, but the quiet art of carrying one's vulnerabilities forward.

Books, in their steady companionship, deepened this path. Humayun Ahmed's gentle narratives, like those in Himur Rupali Raat or the Misir Ali series or even Ke Kotha Koy, revealed profound truths lurking in ordinary kitchens and quiet conversations, reminding me that wisdom often wears the face of the familiar. Sharatchandra Chattopadhyay's works, such as Srikanto or Parineeta, cracked open the human heart's contradictions - love as both salvation and ruin - without judgment. Franz Kafka's surreal worlds in The Trial or Metamorphosis whispered of existence's absurdity, urging dignity amid chaos. And when I turned to nonfiction, histories like Romila Thapar's A History of India or geopolitical analyses in Parag Khanna's The Future Is Asian illuminated the invisible threads of power and culture shaping societies, feeding my endless question about people.

Religion always exists in a thoughtful corner of my life. I am not an extreme devotee of God, but I deeply appreciate the philosophical depth within Hindu traditions. The discipline, symbolism, and reflective nature of its practices often help calm the mind during difficult moments - not because I expect supernatural intervention, but because reflection itself brings balance.

Cinema, like literature, gradually trains your eyes. You begin noticing details you once ignored. Satyajit Ray's masterpieces, like Pather Panchali or Aparajito, taught that meaning blooms not in spectacle but in the patient silences between heartbeats - a child's gaze at distant trains carrying the weight of unspoken dreams. Stanley Kubrick's clinical dissections in 2001: A Space Odyssey or The Shining exposed human nature under merciless symmetry: power's illusions, technology's cold embrace. Rituparno Ghosh's intimate confessions in Chokher Bali or Raincoat let vulnerability unfold like whispered secrets, making the screen feel like an eavesdropped soul. Quentin Tarantino's chaotic symphonies in Pulp Fiction or Inglourious Basterds proved even violence could dance with wit, turning moral edges into art.

And the superhero epics - every Marvel Cinematic Universe saga from Iron Man to Avengers: Endgame, DC's brooding tales like The Dark Knight or Man of Steel - served as modern parables. Superman embodies unyielding hope; Captain America, moral steadfastness; Thor, humility forged in loss; the Joker, society's fractured mirror.

I was never the clever one, the prodigy mapping flawless paths. Instead, I broke more than I built - relationships splintered by my own clumsiness, ambitions derailed by impulsive leaps, small dignities lost in artistic folly. But strangely, those mistakes have also been teachers. Life for me has always been a long experiment. Trial and error. Trying something, failing, learning, trying again. Each failure slowly clarifies something about who I am and who I should not try to become.

Over time I have developed a simple philosophy about people. I care deeply about those who show even a little kindness. I admire simple intentions. I do not hate ideologies easily. People are free to think, believe, and live however they wish - until it begins harming others. Freedom is beautiful. Harm is not.

Cricket quietly taught me one of the most important lessons in life: learning to accept defeat without losing hope. I genuinely enjoy test cricket. Virat Kohli's batting, Mitchell Starc's swing and Joe Root's batting give me joy. Sometimes when life becomes heavy, I relax with a casual game of chess.

From the nostalgic glow of 1950s Bollywood classics in Awara or Pyaasa, to Modern Talking's synth-driven escapes, Sonu Nigam and Shreya Ghoshal's effortless uplift, Koushiki Chakraborty's classical intensity, Shironamhin's poetic rawness, Artcell and Metallica's metallic honesty, Eminem's lyrical precision, qawwali's spiritual ache, and the timeless dialogue of sitar and tabla - each note mends moods words cannot touch.

In Bangladesh, one composer I deeply admire is SI Tutul. His work carries emotional sincerity that often goes unnoticed. I still sing sometimes, badly and joyfully, alone with the ceiling fan, echoing those evenings when my mother and sister filled the house with song. I also enjoy mimicry occasionally - imitating voices or characters just to make people laugh. Humor is an underrated survival tool.

I genuinely enjoy meeting new people. I am still terrible at igniting conversations with strangers, yet I ignite when they begin, and if the interests align even slightly - then conversation might continue for hours.