6:17 AM – The Alarm That Never Wins
Rafi's phone vibrates under the pillow at 5:45, but he only registers it at 6:17. The fan above him makes a tired clicking sound—third speed because fourth makes too much noise and the regulator is half-broken.
His mother is already in the kitchen. The smell of yesterday's dal mixed with fresh onions reaches the tiny bedroom he shares with his younger brother, Shanto (class 10). The room is 8×10 feet. One steel almirah, two single beds, a study table buried under books and an old desktop that takes 7 minutes to boot.
"firA, o toh uth!" his mother calls softly, not wanting to wake the landlord's family upstairs.
He gets up, splashes water on his face from a bucket (the tap has low pressure in the morning), brushes with the same Pepsodent tube that's been squeezed from the middle for two weeks, and checks his phone.
No new job emails.
38 unread WhatsApp messages in the "Job Preparation " group—mostly motivational quotes and rumours about the next circular.
Breakfast is two pieces of ruti with yesterday's aloo bhaji and tea without enough milk. His mother says "aaj onion ta beshi dam" like it's news.
He leaves at 7:12 AM. The CNG stand is already chaotic.
7:40 AM – The Road That Eats Time
The CNG ride to Gulshan-2 takes 52 minutes instead of 25. A truck has broken down near Farmgate, and everyone is honking as if the sound will magically lift the vehicle.
firA sits pressed between a man carrying a large tiffin carrier and a woman scrolling Facebook loudly. His shirt sticks to his back. The fare is now ৳85—last month it was ৳70.
He scrolls LinkedIn while stuck.
Another "We are thrilled to announce..." post from someone he studied with who now works at Unilever.
He applied there three months ago. No response.
At the office (a mid-sized trading company in Banani), he is "Junior Executive – Documentation". The title sounds better than the work: scanning invoices, chasing suppliers on WhatsApp, filling Excel sheets that nobody really checks.
His salary is ৳28,000. Rent at home is ৳14,000 (two-room flat in Mirpur-10). Electric bill last month was ৳4,200. Gas bill ৳1,150. Mother's thyroid medicine ৳2,800. Shanto's coaching ৳3,000. His own bus/CNG ৳4,500–5,000.
By the 20th of every month, the wallet is breathing, not holding.
2:30 PM – Lunch That Feels Like a Calculation
Lunch is from the nearby mess: ৳70 for rice, dal, one piece fish (small), and vegetable. Sometimes he skips the fish and eats extra dal to save ৳20.
His colleague Imran jokes, "Bro, ei fish-ta dekhe mone hoy ei-tao job khujteche."
They laugh, but both know it's not really funny.
After lunch he checks bdjobs.com on his phone in the toilet (the only place with decent Wi-Fi).
Another rejection auto-mail: "We appreciate your interest... unfortunately..."
He has 147 applications in the last 11 months.
5 interviews.
0 offers.
7:45 PM – The Return Journey
The road back is worse. Rain starts at 6:50. No umbrella. He gets down at Mirpur-10 wearing wet socks inside shoes that already have a hole near the little toe.
His mother has cooked khichuri because "gas kom lage". Shanto is studying with the neighbour's borrowed Wi-Fi hotspot because their connection was cut for two days last month.
Father comes home at 9:20. He is a senior clerk in a government office. Salary ৳41,000 after 28 years of service. Most of it goes to family expenses, medicine for grandmother, and repaying a small loan taken when Rafi was in university.
They eat quietly. Television shows a discussion about "youth unemployment". Everyone changes the channel.
11:10 PM – The Ceiling Conversation
Lying on the bed, fan still clicking.
Rafi opens his phone again.
- Freelancer profile: ৳0 earnings this month (last project was ৳4,500 three months ago).
- Upwork: 17 proposals sent, 0 replies.
- A friend posted photo from Cox's Bazar with caption "Finally some peace ✌️". Rafi hasn't been outside Dhaka in 4 years.
He thinks about the things he wanted at 18:
A motorbike.
A MacBook for editing.
A trip with friends.
A girlfriend who wouldn't mind that he can't take her to nice cafés every week.
Now at 24 he mostly wants:
The fan to stop making noise.
A job that pays ৳45,000+.
For his mother to stop saying "everything will be fine" in that tired voice.
He sets the alarm for 5:45 again.
Tomorrow is the same.
firA will keeps going because stopping is not an option.
He is not poor enough for NGO help.
Not connected enough for quick favours.
Not brilliant enough to crack BCS in the first attempt.
He is just... middle.
And in Dhaka, in 2026, being "just middle" means waking up every day knowing the math will be tight again, the traffic will steal another hour, the rejection email will arrive eventually, and yet—he still sets the alarm.
Because tomorrow might be the day the numbers finally add up.
Even if just a little.
This is the reality of a men's lives in third world country—repetitive, exhausting, quietly anxious,