Human Stories from Bangladesh – Beautiful People Make a Beautiful Country

Reflections from the Borders of Bangladesh

Reflections drawn from lived experiences and observations during my travels in Bangladesh (2010–2014).

Some journeys are planned.
Others unfold quietly—at borders, stations, and in the company of strangers who choose kindness without knowing your name.

This is not a travel story in the usual sense.
It is a collection of lived moments—of people, places, and values—that stayed with me long after the journey ended.

Bangladesh human stories like these stayed with me long after borders were crossed.

Crossing Borders, Returning Home

Travelling is good for the soul
It widens your perspective, and you return richer in ways that cannot be measured.

I travelled frequently to Bangladesh on business, holding a multiple-entry visa that required crossing over every few months or as stamped on the visa. Since I needed to stay for long stretches, Agartala became my convenient exit-and-return point—sometimes even on the same day.

From Dhaka Airport Railway Station, we would take a train towards Akhaura. This route I learnt from a friend, Kislay Shukla. From Akhaura station, it was just about three kilometres to the Indian check post—easily covered by a CNG auto or a cycle rickshaw.

Every time I crossed into India, even for a few brief hours, it felt deeply comforting—like stepping back into yourself. A visit to the Laxmi Narayan Temple, grocery shopping, and enjoying delicious local meals in small dhaba-style eateries—it was always simple and wonderful

Once, my brother insisted that I return home to India permanently. I was adamant and dramatically declared that if forced, I would run away and not return home.
He laughed and asked, “Where will you run away?”
I quipped back, “I won’t run towards Kolkata. I’ll run away from the other side!”

He burst out laughing and said, “Good. Do that.”

It took me a while to realise what he meant.
From whichever direction I chose to “run”, I would still be running towards home—India.

Arif and the Quiet Weight of History

At Akhaura Junction, my first stop was always a small snack shop selling biscuits, chips, and ice creams. It was run by Arif—a gentle, soft-spoken man. Whenever I had time before my return train, I would sit there, chat with him, and simply be.

One day, a group of boys walked up to his shop and began mocking him—calling him “son of a gaddaar” (betrayer). They sat there deliberately, continuing their taunts. I grew uneasy, worried they might turn aggressive.

Arif noticed my concern and calmly reassured me not to worry.

Later, when the boys left, I asked him what it was about.
He said quietly, “My father is Pakistani. My mother is Bangladeshi. During the disturbances in 1971, my father fled to Pakistan out of fear, leaving the family behind.”

The word gaddaar is often used as slang for Pakistanis there.
It must have been painful—for something that was never his fault.

Borders, Courage, and ‘Jai Hind’

Seeing our jawans at the border always filled me with pride. Greeting them, exchanging smiles, and hearing a cheerful “Jai Hind!” was grounding in a way words cannot fully capture.

On one visit, a customs officer on the Bangladesh side casually asked me to bring him a small bottle of whisky on my return. I was shocked—first because he asked a woman, and second because it was the holy month of Ramadan.

I responded firmly, “I am in Bangladesh, and it is the holy month. I will not bring alcohol.”

He couldn’t argue further, but fear stayed with me—I still had to return via the same route.

Later that day, running close to the 5:00 pm closing time, anxiety set in. At the Indian check post, I shared my experience with one of our soldiers and admitted my fear.

He smiled and said, “Sister, take our phone number. Go bravely. If things get out of hand, give a missed call. I’ll be there in 20 seconds flat.”

The josh in him was infectious.

When I returned, that officer wasn’t on duty. I crossed safely and waved a thumbs-up to our soldier. All was well 🙂.

Stranded, but Not Alone

Back at Akhaura station, I realised the train to Dhaka had arrived early—and left just five minutes before I got there. There were no more trains. No buses. The check post was closed for the day. It was already around 7:00 pm.

Arif’s shop was shut. There were no hotels. Darkness was setting in.

I thought of going to Brahmanbaria, a small town next to Akhaura, where buses towards Dhaka were available. I stepped out, wondering what I could do next. Coincidentally, the same auto driver who had earlier dropped me from the check post noticed me again and asked what had happened.

When I shared my plan, he immediately addressed me as Appu—elder sister—and said firmly,
“Appu, I will not let you go to Brahmanbaria.”

He explained that it was unsafe at night, especially being so close to the border. Then he said something that has stayed with me ever since:

“You are my Indian sister. It is my duty to keep you safe in Bangladesh. India did a lot for us when we were in trouble, and this is my small way of showing gratitude.”

He went on to say that if needed, he would take me to his small hut. His entire family would sleep outside, and I would stay inside. But he would not—under any circumstance—let me go alone anywhere at that hour.

I was deeply touched. I may have been the elder sister by age, but this young man took complete charge of the situation. He asked me to sit in the auto and began driving, without even explaining where we were going. His only reassurance was simple and steady:

“Trust me. I am your brother.”

We drove through dark, muddy roads with no streetlights—only the auto’s headlight cutting through the night. There was no traffic, no people around. At one point, it became pitch dark. I kept asking where we were going. He refused to answer, completely focused on the road ahead. I had no choice but to sit quietly and trust him.

After about forty minutes, we reached a tiny station—it felt straight out of Malgudi Days. There was no proper platform, no electricity—just a small station master’s room and kerosene lamps glowing faintly in the dark. A few people were waiting silently by the low lying platform by the tracks.

The first thing he did was take me for tea and snacks. Then he went inside to meet the station master. It took him nearly thirty minutes of persuasion to arrange a confirmed ticket for me. By then, it was already 9:00 pm.

Even after everything was settled, he refused to leave. I told him he had done more than enough and asked him not to worry. But he insisted, saying he would only be at peace after putting me safely inside the train and seeing me off.

When I tried to pay him, he was almost offended.

“Please don’t insult me,” he said.
“This was my duty as a brother. Your safety is all that mattered.”

On one hand, I was deeply moved. On the other, I wondered how one ever reciprocates such kindness.

The train finally arrived. I managed to push my way through and find my seat. I waved goodbye to the hero of the day, thanking him silently as the train whistled away towards Dhaka.

I reached Dhaka at around 11:30 that night. Shortly after, I received a phone call from my brother Mohammed—checking if I had reached safely and reminding me that home, DOHS, was just another twenty minutes away.

What a day.

When the Land Refuses to Divide

Small Victories, Shared Pride

Dignity, Unbroken

This was not the first time I encountered a noble soul on the streets of Dhaka.

I remember this cycle rickshaw puller clearly—not because of sympathy, but because of his quiet strength. His hands bore the marks of hardship—malnourished, rickety, shaped by years of labour. By birth, his body was physically challenged. His left hand hung limp, without strength.

And yet—what struck me most was not his limitation.

It was his dignity.

There was no apology in his posture. No bitterness in his eyes. He carried himself with self-respect, earning his living with resolve, meeting life on its own terms.

Some people teach resilience not through words, but simply by standing where they are—and continuing.

I silently saluted his spirit.

Charity as a Way of Life

There was another quiet pattern I began to notice in Bangladesh—one that revealed itself not through institutions, but through everyday acts.

Charity here did not appear conditional.

Whether the receiver was deserving or not seemed beside the point. What mattered was that giving itself was a way of life—deeply ingrained, instinctive, unquestioned.

I saw a handcart vendor part with a handful of grains for someone hungry.
An auto driver offering a few taka from his modest earnings.
A cycle rickshaw puller sharing what little he had—without hesitation.

Everyone gave what they could, according to their capacity.

There was no display, no judgment, no calculation.
The act of giving flowed naturally.

And always, the credit was quietly placed elsewhere.
“Allah’s grace,” they would say.

Planting Belief

During my years in Bangladesh, whenever time allowed, our small Indian community would try to do what we could for the local underprivileged children.

One such effort was holding informal drawing classes for street children. We had no classroom. We sat right there on the footpath, on the roadside. A Bangladeshi artist generously volunteered to teach them sketching.

That day, one little boy stood out.

He drew a sketch so precise it startled me. His circles were near perfect—drawn freehand, without a compass. It wasn’t practice. It was instinct.

I folded his drawing carefully and handed it back to him.
I told him, “Beta, keep this safe. You can do so much if you continue studying and follow this.”

He looked at me with absolute certainty and said,
“Yes, sister. When I grow up, I will do a lot. I will make my Bangladesh proud.”

He couldn’t have been more than five or six years old.
He lived on the streets.

Yet what he carried was not lack—it was belief.

Closing Reflection

Borders divide land, not hearts.

What stayed with me from this experience was not fear, nor inconvenience, nor even the uncertainty of that night—but the quiet dignity and courage of people who chose responsibility over indifference.

From Arif’s silent endurance, to the unwavering confidence of our jawan, to a young auto driver who became my brother without asking my name—each reminded me that goodness does not need permission, nationality, or recognition.

Beautiful people are not always loud.
They are not always victorious.
But they carry dignity, belief, generosity, and courage—quietly.
These reflections are part of the Bangladesh human stories I carry from my years of travel and work.

Some countries are remembered for their monuments.
Others, for their people.

For me, Bangladesh will always be remembered for the latter.
This reflection is part of my larger archive of lived experiences.

If this reflection stayed with you, the comment space is open below.

Beautiful people make a beautiful country.
Beautiful Bangladesh.

For geographical context, see the India–Bangladesh border region.

Author‘s Note

⚖️Disclaimer

This piece reflects personal observations and lived experiences. It does not intend to generalise, represent, or define any country, community, religion, institution, or individual.
All moments are shared with respect, gratitude, and care for human dignity.

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