LOQUACITY

The sky was slowly turning orange.

After finishing his ablution, Mr. Alam stepped out of his small house. Cool water still clung to his hands and face. He glanced at the wall clock—there was still some time before Asr prayer. He stood quietly for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the neighborhood.

The Sub-District election was only a few days away, and the air felt heavier than usual. Political posters covered walls and electric poles. Suddenly, loud voices approached. A procession marched down the street, chanting slogans with forced enthusiasm:

“The candidate’s character is as pure as a flower! Give him the opportunity!”

Mr. Alam watched with tired eyes. He had lived long enough to see many such processions, many promises, many lies. He slowly opened the gate, let the crowd pass, and then continued toward the mosque, his steps calm and measured.

On another road, Mamun walked home under the same sky—but his world felt entirely different.

Since morning, he had gone from one interview to another. He answered confidently, smiled politely, and even impressed a few interviewers. Yet every time, the moment they looked at his certificates, their expressions changed.

“No experience.”

“We’ll call you.”

They never did.

His stomach cramped painfully. He hadn’t eaten since last night.

I just need something to eat, he thought.

When he reached his house, he locked the door behind him and sank onto the bed. His eyes immediately went to the small packet on the table.

The biscuits were still there.

A faint smile crossed his face. “At least you survived the rats,” he whispered.

This one-room house had no electricity, no kitchen, and barely enough space to stretch his legs. The rent was cheap—five dollars—because poverty demanded sacrifices. When food itself felt like a luxury, electricity was unthinkable.

After eating, Mamun rested briefly. He would have to leave soon for tuition—his only source of income.

Then came a knock.

Mamun already knew who it was.

Uncle Korban stood outside, arms crossed.

“You remember your rent, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, uncle,” Mamun replied softly. “I’ll give it this evening.”

Korban’s voice turned cold.

“If you don’t pay today, I’ll throw your belongings out next time I come.”

Mamun nodded.

But as the door closed, his heart sank.

I lied.

He had already spent the tuition money. If he couldn’t arrange something today, he would be sleeping on the street tomorrow.

He sat silently, thinking.

Then a name surfaced in his mind.

Shafiq.

Shafiq worked at a clinic.

Unofficially, he ran a blood-selling scam.

Mamun hated the idea—but hunger and fear leave no room for dignity.

At the clinic, Shafiq greeted him warmly.

The clinic smelled of disinfectant.

Mamun explained everything—his voice trembling.

Shafiq sighed.

“Blood donation hours are over. But… there is a way. But it’s risky.”

Mamun already knew.

The price was cruel.

Four dollars.

Mamun had no strength to argue.

The needle slid into his arm. The blood flowed slowly into the bag.

As he lay there, Mamun calculated numbers in his head.

Four dollars… rent is ten… I still have one dollar thirty…

His vision blurred.

When it was over, Shafiq handed him the money—no sympathy, no concern. When Mamun asked for glucose biscuits, Shafiq snapped at him. “Go buy it yourself,” he said irritably.

Mamun left the clinic feeling weaker than when he entered—physically and emotionally.

After Asr prayer, Mr. Alam followed his usual routine. He walked a short distance, then sat at Jamal’s tea shop, discussing politics with other elders. When the Maghrib azan (Call to Prayer) echoed, he paid for the tea and left for the mosque.

That routine had lasted twenty years.

Today, it broke.

As he walked home, rival political groups suddenly clashed. Shouts turned violent. Pushing turned brutal.

Mr. Alam was caught in the middle.

A blow from behind.

He fell.

Feet crushed against his old body.

The world faded.

Mamun was heading to tuition, his body weak, his head light.

He saw the chaos and instinctively changed his path.

Then he saw an old man lying on the road.

Mamun stopped.

His father’s face appeared in his mind—sudden and sharp.

Without thinking, he ran.

“Uncle, take my hand.”

The old man’s grip was weak, trembling. Mamun lifted him with all his remaining strength and called a rickshaw. The driver hesitated, eyes fixed on Mamun’s pocket.

Mamun pulled out one dollar.

Almost everything he had.

“Please hurry.”

As the rickshaw disappeared, Mamun felt uneasy.

What if the driver abandons him?

Sometimes, even kindness must walk away.

But Mamun couldn’t follow. He had to go to tuition—or lose even that.

At the clinic, Mr. Alam received treatment. His injuries were not severe, but the shock had been dangerous. The staff found his son Arif’s number and called him.

When Arif arrived, relief washed over his face.

“Someone helped me today,” Mr. Alam said softly. “I want to thank him.”

But there was no name.

No description.

No trace.

Mamun walked on—hungry, weak, uncertain where he would sleep the next night.

He had no idea that his small act had saved a life.

Some angels do not have wings.

They wear worn clothes, carry empty pockets, and disappear quietly into the crowd—

never expecting gratitude,

never being remembered.

And yet, the world keeps breathing because of them.