A City Beneath the Rain by Md Mujib Ullah
When an apocalyptic storm floods the Bangladeshi city of Chattogram, residents Shafaet and Azim scramble to find hope in their community.
The bruised sky hung low over Chattogram, a swollen wound pressing down on the city's restless heart. Before dawn, at 4:30am, the air was thick and heavy, a damp shroud suffocating the narrow lanes of Halishahar. Walls wept in silence, slick with the fevered breath of a monsoon unleashed too early, too fiercely. The scent of wet earth, rotting wood, and yesterday's curry clung stubbornly to every cracked surface, as if the city itself exhaled a mournful prayer.
Shafaet woke before the alarm, the tightness in his chest refusing to relent. His small room smelled of damp blankets and thin, frayed hope. Fatima lay beside him, breathing slowly and steadily in sleep's fragile embrace. Their son, Rumi, six years old and already learning the weight of the world, curled beneath a threadbare sheet, lips moving in silent prayer - not for shelter alone, but for survival. For the soul of the city.
This year's rain was no gentle visitor. It tore through streets like a wild beast, transforming arteries into swollen rivers of murky water. This was no monsoon; this was siege.
Pulling on a threadbare raincoat, Shafaet stepped into the dawn's watery grasp. His destination: IFCO Garments and Textiles Ltd., Kalurghat. On any other day, a few local bus journeys; today, an odyssey through a drowned world.
The streets had become unrecognizable. Vendor stalls vanished beneath floodwaters. Rickshaws sat stranded like shipwrecks. His neighbor Rahim stood by his half-submerged rickshaw, scooping water with a battered plastic bucket. His usual laughter was swallowed by the heaviness in the air.
"As-salamu alaykum, Bhai," Shafaet called, voice raw against the storm.
Rahim shook his head slowly. "Wa alaykumu s-salam, Shafaet. Another day adrift. My rickshaw's more a boat now - no wheels, only memories. My children need milk. My wife needs medicine. This water steals everything - bread, peace, hope."
Shafaet nodded, words failing beneath the weight they carried. They were the city's invisible front line - daily wage earners drowning long before the city itself.
Wading through the flooded alleys, each step was a battle against the tide of filth and despair. The drains, clogged with plastic and decay, vomited a sickly stench into the air. Rickshaws spun uselessly in waterlogged streets. Private cars - emblems of fleeting status - drowned beneath muddy waves. Two men paddled a makeshift raft, a fragile rebellion against the flood's relentless claim.
At GEC Circle, chaos reigned. Engines stalled, horns blared amid shouts and splashes. The skeletal flyover loomed overhead, a grotesque monument to broken promises, its concrete pillars swallowed knee-deep by the flood.
A sudden cry cut through the rain. Shafaet's heart faltered as he spotted a boy - no older than Rumi - tumbling in the current. His mother's desperate hands snatched him just in time, her scream swallowed by the wind. Rumi's name echoed inside Shafaet like a warning bell. The knot in his stomach tightened, cold and sharp. He pressed forward past shuttered shops and silent streets, the sour sweetness of stagnant water thick in the air. Children clung to shoulders; mothers huddled beneath torn awnings. The city whispered its grief.
In Agrabad, Azim sat behind a rain-streaked window, watching the city dissolve in gray. His Master's in Data Analytics and Design Thinking from East Delta University was supposed to be a beacon, a tool for solutions. His phone buzzed with a message from his mother, Rehana.
"Azim, come home for lunch. Water's rising fast near Bahaddarhat and Muradpur. The factory's chaos. Girls are leaving early. Shabana's family moved again - boats scarce, fares high. This water steals everything, beta."
Azim swallowed hard. The crisis was no longer distant but fracturing the city's foundation. His thoughts spiraled outward - toward Shafaet, Rahim, the factory girls. The teachers were stranded in flooded schools. Children were missing lessons. A city drowning in neglect.
At the factory, Shafaet arrived soaked and exhausted. The machines hummed an endless metallic dirge as workers huddled in a damp corner during lunch.
"My cousin's house is underwater," Jahanara whispered, eyes wide. "They sleep on the roof - just one thin blanket. The children shiver."
"My daughter hasn't been to school in a week," Karim said. "South Halishahar's a lake. How will she learn? Dream? The water steals her future."
Shafaet said nothing. Their pain was his own - a shared knot of despair tangled with indifference.
That afternoon, Azim found refuge in a tea stall. The roof rattled under the deluge. Mr. Chowdhury, a retired schoolteacher, cradled his tea like a sacred relic.
"Azim, this city isn't drowning just in water," he said quietly. "It's drowning in neglect."
Azim nodded, soaked to the bone. "The drains are old, choked with plastic and debris. Illegal structures block canals. We build flyovers, but the foundations rot."
Mr. Chowdhury's eyes flashed. "Corruption, greed, apathy - the real flood beneath the water."
Azim's voice sharpened. "But solutions exist. Waste systems, transparent governance, and citizen involvement. We build up while the ground beneath crumbles."
Mr. Chowdhury smiled faintly. "You speak like a man who believes change is possible. That belief - that is the city's breath."
Evening softened the rain to a drizzle. Shafaet trudged home through rising water, past rafts carrying families and dreams barely afloat. Rickshaw fares had tripled; desperation thickened the air like smoke.
He thought of Rumi's bright eyes, endless questions about the world.
A city where rain brought joy, not dread. Where streets shimmered slick but safe. Where dreams weren't drowned every monsoon.
At home, a single light in their window shone like a lighthouse in the dark. Fatima met him at the door; Rumi clung to her leg. Water lapped hungrily at their doorstep, but inside they were dry today, at least.
He ate quietly - rice and lentils, simple sustenance. But his mind wandered to Azim, Rahim, Jahanara, and Karim. The city, broken and beautiful, was drowning but not defeated.
That night, Rumi whispered, "Baba, will the rain ever stop?"
Shafaet pulled him close. "Maybe, beta. Or maybe the city will learn to breathe with the rain."
Under candlelight, Azim uploaded photos and stories titled "Chattogram: The Submerged City". He proposed Neer: The City's Breath - a youth-led flood mapping project to illuminate the crisis and spark action.
Two days later, the sun returned. Rahim hammered dents from his rickshaw.
"Storm or sun, Bhai. Life doesn't pause."
Shafaet opened a dusty notebook and wrote: "My name is Shafaet. I live in Halishahar. I walk through water to work. I want my son to inherit a city that breathes."
Outside, gentle rain began. Inside, something stirred - not surrender, but resolve.
Weeks passed. The rains receded, but the flood's scars lingered.
At the community center, Shafaet gathered neighbors, sharing stories and pooling resources. Fatima organized a sewing collective, mending not just clothes but spirits. Rahim, his rickshaw patched and ready, volunteered to ferry medicines and children through still-flooded lanes.
Azim presented data maps at a city hall meeting. Officials listened - some hopeful, others cynical. But citizens spoke louder, demanding change.
One night, under a sky ink-black and star-dotted, Shafaet and Azim stood by the riverbank.
"The city breathes through us," Azim said softly.
Shafaet nodded. "We are its lungs."
The monsoon would return. It always did. But beneath the floodwaters, something new was growing - a fierce, fragile hope.
In Halishahar, children played where waters had receded, their laughter rising like prayer. And in the hearts of those who refused to surrender, Chattogram pulsed - wounded but alive.
Chattogram hadn't given up. Not yet. And perhaps, just perhaps, it never would.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
Shafaet woke before the alarm, the tightness in his chest refusing to relent. His small room smelled of damp blankets and thin, frayed hope. Fatima lay beside him, breathing slowly and steadily in sleep's fragile embrace. Their son, Rumi, six years old and already learning the weight of the world, curled beneath a threadbare sheet, lips moving in silent prayer - not for shelter alone, but for survival. For the soul of the city.
This year's rain was no gentle visitor. It tore through streets like a wild beast, transforming arteries into swollen rivers of murky water. This was no monsoon; this was siege.
Pulling on a threadbare raincoat, Shafaet stepped into the dawn's watery grasp. His destination: IFCO Garments and Textiles Ltd., Kalurghat. On any other day, a few local bus journeys; today, an odyssey through a drowned world.
The streets had become unrecognizable. Vendor stalls vanished beneath floodwaters. Rickshaws sat stranded like shipwrecks. His neighbor Rahim stood by his half-submerged rickshaw, scooping water with a battered plastic bucket. His usual laughter was swallowed by the heaviness in the air.
"As-salamu alaykum, Bhai," Shafaet called, voice raw against the storm.
Rahim shook his head slowly. "Wa alaykumu s-salam, Shafaet. Another day adrift. My rickshaw's more a boat now - no wheels, only memories. My children need milk. My wife needs medicine. This water steals everything - bread, peace, hope."
Shafaet nodded, words failing beneath the weight they carried. They were the city's invisible front line - daily wage earners drowning long before the city itself.
Wading through the flooded alleys, each step was a battle against the tide of filth and despair. The drains, clogged with plastic and decay, vomited a sickly stench into the air. Rickshaws spun uselessly in waterlogged streets. Private cars - emblems of fleeting status - drowned beneath muddy waves. Two men paddled a makeshift raft, a fragile rebellion against the flood's relentless claim.
At GEC Circle, chaos reigned. Engines stalled, horns blared amid shouts and splashes. The skeletal flyover loomed overhead, a grotesque monument to broken promises, its concrete pillars swallowed knee-deep by the flood.
A sudden cry cut through the rain. Shafaet's heart faltered as he spotted a boy - no older than Rumi - tumbling in the current. His mother's desperate hands snatched him just in time, her scream swallowed by the wind. Rumi's name echoed inside Shafaet like a warning bell. The knot in his stomach tightened, cold and sharp. He pressed forward past shuttered shops and silent streets, the sour sweetness of stagnant water thick in the air. Children clung to shoulders; mothers huddled beneath torn awnings. The city whispered its grief.
In Agrabad, Azim sat behind a rain-streaked window, watching the city dissolve in gray. His Master's in Data Analytics and Design Thinking from East Delta University was supposed to be a beacon, a tool for solutions. His phone buzzed with a message from his mother, Rehana.
"Azim, come home for lunch. Water's rising fast near Bahaddarhat and Muradpur. The factory's chaos. Girls are leaving early. Shabana's family moved again - boats scarce, fares high. This water steals everything, beta."
Azim swallowed hard. The crisis was no longer distant but fracturing the city's foundation. His thoughts spiraled outward - toward Shafaet, Rahim, the factory girls. The teachers were stranded in flooded schools. Children were missing lessons. A city drowning in neglect.
At the factory, Shafaet arrived soaked and exhausted. The machines hummed an endless metallic dirge as workers huddled in a damp corner during lunch.
"My cousin's house is underwater," Jahanara whispered, eyes wide. "They sleep on the roof - just one thin blanket. The children shiver."
"My daughter hasn't been to school in a week," Karim said. "South Halishahar's a lake. How will she learn? Dream? The water steals her future."
Shafaet said nothing. Their pain was his own - a shared knot of despair tangled with indifference.
That afternoon, Azim found refuge in a tea stall. The roof rattled under the deluge. Mr. Chowdhury, a retired schoolteacher, cradled his tea like a sacred relic.
"Azim, this city isn't drowning just in water," he said quietly. "It's drowning in neglect."
Azim nodded, soaked to the bone. "The drains are old, choked with plastic and debris. Illegal structures block canals. We build flyovers, but the foundations rot."
Mr. Chowdhury's eyes flashed. "Corruption, greed, apathy - the real flood beneath the water."
Azim's voice sharpened. "But solutions exist. Waste systems, transparent governance, and citizen involvement. We build up while the ground beneath crumbles."
Mr. Chowdhury smiled faintly. "You speak like a man who believes change is possible. That belief - that is the city's breath."
Evening softened the rain to a drizzle. Shafaet trudged home through rising water, past rafts carrying families and dreams barely afloat. Rickshaw fares had tripled; desperation thickened the air like smoke.
He thought of Rumi's bright eyes, endless questions about the world.
A city where rain brought joy, not dread. Where streets shimmered slick but safe. Where dreams weren't drowned every monsoon.
At home, a single light in their window shone like a lighthouse in the dark. Fatima met him at the door; Rumi clung to her leg. Water lapped hungrily at their doorstep, but inside they were dry today, at least.
He ate quietly - rice and lentils, simple sustenance. But his mind wandered to Azim, Rahim, Jahanara, and Karim. The city, broken and beautiful, was drowning but not defeated.
That night, Rumi whispered, "Baba, will the rain ever stop?"
Shafaet pulled him close. "Maybe, beta. Or maybe the city will learn to breathe with the rain."
Under candlelight, Azim uploaded photos and stories titled "Chattogram: The Submerged City". He proposed Neer: The City's Breath - a youth-led flood mapping project to illuminate the crisis and spark action.
Two days later, the sun returned. Rahim hammered dents from his rickshaw.
"Storm or sun, Bhai. Life doesn't pause."
Shafaet opened a dusty notebook and wrote: "My name is Shafaet. I live in Halishahar. I walk through water to work. I want my son to inherit a city that breathes."
Outside, gentle rain began. Inside, something stirred - not surrender, but resolve.
Weeks passed. The rains receded, but the flood's scars lingered.
At the community center, Shafaet gathered neighbors, sharing stories and pooling resources. Fatima organized a sewing collective, mending not just clothes but spirits. Rahim, his rickshaw patched and ready, volunteered to ferry medicines and children through still-flooded lanes.
Azim presented data maps at a city hall meeting. Officials listened - some hopeful, others cynical. But citizens spoke louder, demanding change.
One night, under a sky ink-black and star-dotted, Shafaet and Azim stood by the riverbank.
"The city breathes through us," Azim said softly.
Shafaet nodded. "We are its lungs."
The monsoon would return. It always did. But beneath the floodwaters, something new was growing - a fierce, fragile hope.
In Halishahar, children played where waters had receded, their laughter rising like prayer. And in the hearts of those who refused to surrender, Chattogram pulsed - wounded but alive.
Chattogram hadn't given up. Not yet. And perhaps, just perhaps, it never would.
Particularly at the beginning of the story, the author used some exquisite metaphors and the choice of vocabulary and insertion of native speech was well done. I felt like I was immersed in the water myself in this very timely tale.
ReplyDeleteThis is a gorgeous first line, “The bruised sky hung low over Chattogram, a swollen wound pressing down on the city's restless heart.” I feel like this story is as much poem as story. A beautiful poem!!
ReplyDeleteSounds much like the USA. Do our drowned towns have hope?
ReplyDeleteI was thinking precisely the same thing. The major difference is the existence of agencies like FEMA in the US--for now.
DeleteA
Just loved the first paragraph that set the tone of the story beautifully!
ReplyDelete