The sun was setting.
Birds were returning to their nests.
An eerie, cold wind swept gently through the evening air.
A group of boys walked down the road, one of them holding a football in his hands. It seemed they had just finished playing and were heading home.
Not far from them, a few men—around the age of thirty or thirty-two—sat at a roadside tea stall, drinking tea and chatting casually.
Then suddenly, the Adhan began to echo in the air.
One of the men stood up quickly.
"Hey Jovan, finish your tea! We've got to catch Salah in Jamaat. We'll be late!"
But Jovan remained relaxed, still sipping his tea.
"Rahman, wait… Let me enjoy the tea first," he said lazily.
It seemed the man urging him was named Rahman.
Rahman frowned.
"Salah comes first. We can't ignore it."
Without another word, he grabbed Jovan's arm, took the teacup from his hand, returned it to the stall owner, and paid the bill—
All in the blink of an eye.
"Hey! Rahman—my tea…!" Jovan complained.
---
[Rahman was a Hafez, a man deeply devoted to his faith. He was calm, quiet, and kind-hearted. But when it came to worship—he could never stay calm. For him, Ibadat wasn't optional—it was life.]
[Unlike Rahman, Jovan was the opposite. A Muslim by name, yes—but not serious about his religious duties. Yet, they were best friends. And Rahman couldn't bear to let his friend drift further away. He always tried to bring Jovan closer to the right path.]
---
"Let's go, Jovan," Rahman said firmly, pulling him along.
The two left the tea stall and headed toward the mosque.
But three men remained behind at the stall.
They wore traditional Bangladeshi clothes—lungis and formal shirts—but their behavior felt strange.
They didn't look like locals.
Their eyes were sharp, and their posture too stiff.
They whispered to each other, glancing occasionally in the direction Rahman and Jovan had gone.
Something about them… wasn't right.
---
Meanwhile, in a nearby park, on a lonely bench, a man in his mid-twenties lay quietly.
He looked as if he were sleeping—
But his face was heavy with sorrow. His body looked tired, and his eyes… empty.
This man's name was Shams.
Age: 26.
To everyone in his neighborhood—Shams was a miracle.
"God-gifted," they'd say.
From studies to sports, cooking to singing—he was good at almost everything.
A genius. A rising star. A boy everyone admired.
But if he was so perfect—
Why was he lying on a park bench, looking like a man who had lost everything?
Why was he so broken? So silent?
To understand this...
We must return 26 years into the past.
[26 Years Ago....]
The night was fierce.
Wind howled through the trees. The tin roofs of the small village houses rattled like they might fly away any second.
The rain showed no mercy—
And inside a small mud house, lit only by a dim lantern, a woman screamed in labor.
There was no doctor.
No nurse.
Only an old midwife, trembling as she held the mother's hand.
Outside, the father paced barefoot in the muddy yard, soaked in rain, praying, begging, whispering the names of every saint he had ever heard of.
Then—
A cry.
A sharp, loud, powerful cry.
The father froze.
And just like that—
The rain stopped.
No thunder.
No wind.
Only silence, as if the entire world had held its breath.
The door creaked open, and the midwife came out, holding a small bundle in her arms.
"He's born," she said softly. "A boy."
She handed him to the father.
The baby wasn't crying anymore.
His eyes were wide open, staring directly into his father's eyes, as if he understood.
As if he knew he had arrived in a world that wasn't ready for him.
The villagers came the next day to visit.
They looked into the child's calm face, then at each other.
"This one… this one is different."
From the day Shams was born, the village began to change.
It was once the kind of place you'd forget on a map—dusty roads, broken huts, no electricity, and dreams that died before they even began. Government officials ignored it. Politicians used it for votes, then threw it away like old paper.
But then...
He came.
Within months of Shams' birth, the corrupt local politician—who had long fed off the villagers' poverty—was suddenly removed from power. Replaced by someone younger, educated, and far more honest.
The new officer visited the village. Promised development. And for the first time, he kept his word.
Electric poles were installed.
Roads were repaired.
Water pumps were built.
And slowly, people started smiling again.
"That boy is lucky," elders whispered.
"His face has something. A noor. A blessing."
Even jobs—once impossible—started to appear.
Several villagers got work in nearby towns, including Fakhuruddin, Shams' father.
The family soon shifted to the town in a small rented flat. Life began anew.
But not everything was normal.
By the time Shams turned six, he still hadn't spoken a single word.
Not Mama. Not Baba.
Not even a cry in pain or laughter.
They brought him toys. He smiled.
He played with birds. He smiled.
They told him stories. He listened, wide-eyed—but always silent.
Fakhuruddin was worried.
He took Shams to a doctor.
The doctor ran tests. Checked his ears, his tongue, even his brain.
Everything was normal.
"Your son is... completely healthy," the doctor said, confused.
"Then why doesn't he speak?" Fakhuruddin asked, eyes full of pain.
The doctor looked at Shams.
The child stared back—calm, unreadable.
And then he smiled.
But still said nothing.
---
Days passed.
Then, one morning—tragedy struck.
Shams' mother, who had raised him with every drop of love she had, passed away in her sleep.
The house fell into silence.
Not even birds chirped that day.
As her body lay wrapped in white, the neighbors gathered for janazah.
And then—
From the corner of the room, a small voice, clear and heartbreaking, whispered:
"Ma..."
Everyone turned.
It was Shams.
He had finally spoken.
Tears fell like rain.
The village would never forget that day.
They said,
"Allah took his mother, but gave him a tongue."
And from that moment on—
Shams began to speak.
And with his words, the world would listen.
---
After Shams' mother's death, he was left alone in the world, though he still had his father. But he felt incredibly lonely. Now that he could talk, he didn't speak often. He remained calm and silent.
Months passed, and Shams was admitted to school. He became a quick learner. It was almost impossible for children of his age to grasp things so fast. In math class, as soon as the teacher completed one problem, Shams had already solved every problem on his own. It was amazing.
One day, while walking with his father on the road, Shams saw a man fixing a TV in a mechanical shop. When their TV broke, Shams fixed it himself. His ability to learn new things so quickly was astonishing.
By the time Shams was seven, he played cricket better than boys twice his age. His talent became widely recognized, and he made friends during this time. He started to live more happily and talked more often.
---
Back to the Present:
But why is Shams so sad?
Why does he seem so depressed?
What happened to the boy who had everything?
---
Next Chapter Preview:
The world changes... Battle for Growth begins...
A broken, remarkable military candidate emerges...