My name is Polash Roy. I was born in a small and remote village in Bangladesh. My family was very poor, and life was never easy for us. Our house was made of bamboo and tin sheets. During the rainy season, rainwater sometimes leaked through the roof, and during winter the cold wind easily entered our small home.
In our family, there were four children—three brothers and one sister. I was the youngest of them all. My two elder brothers were named Tulshi and Madhu. Being the eldest sons, people in the village believed they would help our father and support the family. But the reality was very different.
My father was a hardworking farmer. Every day before sunrise, he woke up and prepared himself for work. I often saw him early in the morning washing his face at the tube well, putting a small towel on his shoulder, and quietly leaving for the fields.
He worked under the burning sun for long hours. Sometimes he worked on our small piece of land, and sometimes he worked on other people's farms just to earn a little extra money. His hands were always rough and cracked because of hard labor. But even with all that pain, my father never complained.
Unfortunately, my two elder brothers were not interested in helping him. Instead of working, they spent most of their time wandering around the village roads with their friends. They laughed, talked, and wasted their days while my father struggled alone to carry the burden of our family.
My only sister, Lokkhi Rani, was a very kind and gentle girl. Even though she was still young, she understood the pain of our family. Whenever our father returned home exhausted, she would bring him water or help our mother cook.
Sometimes she quietly said to me, "Polash, Baba works so hard every day. I wish we could help him."
Those words stayed in my heart.
One night I watched my father sitting silently after a long day of work. His clothes were dirty, his face was tired, and the dim light of the kerosene lamp made the room look heavy and quiet.
That night I could not sleep.
I kept thinking about my father working alone every day while my brothers did nothing.
Then one morning, when I turned ten years old, I made a decision.
Even though I was just a small boy, I could no longer watch my father suffer alone.
That day I decided something that would change my life forever.
I decided that I would start working.
I did not know where to go or what work I could do. But I knew one thing—
I had to help my father.
And that was the beginning of my long journey of struggle.
To be continued…