Simon Mohsin
The scent of cumin and coriander filled the small apartment as Shahriar Aman stirred the bhuna khichuri, the wooden spoon moving in practiced circles against the bottom of the heavy-bottomed pot. His mother, Rashida, sat at the modest dining table, her sari draped carefully over her shoulders, watching her son with the same mixture of pride and bewilderment that had marked these monthly dinners for three years now.
“Shahid bhai was asking about you again,” she said, referring to their neighbour. “He says the rickshaw-wallahs in Lalbagh are all talking about some new system. Something with phones.”
Aman didn’t look up from the stove. At thirty-one, he had inherited his father’s sharp jawline but his mother’s thoughtful eyes. As the oldest of three siblings, he had learned early to speak only when necessary. “Hmm”, he murmured, adding a pinch of garam masala to the khichuri.
“He said they’re earning more money now. Double, sometimes triple what they used to make.” Rashida’s voice carried the careful tone of someone probing for information. “The drivers press buttons on phones, and passengers appear like magic.”
Shahriar ladled the khichuri into two bowls, the rice and lentils steaming golden with turmeric. He placed one before his mother, along with a small dish of pickled mango his grandmother had taught him to make. “Technology changes things, Ma.”
“But how does it work?” she persisted. “Shahid’s nephew drives a rickshaw near Sadarghat. He says there’s an app called ‘Atlas’ that started all this. Can you imagine? Someone named their app after your old nickname.”
The spoon paused halfway to Shahriar’s mouth. Through the window, he could see the narrow lanes of Old Dhaka, where right now 847 rickshaws and 312 CNGs were navigating the maze of streets, their drivers following optimised routes calculated by algorithms he had written in this very room. Each journey generated data: peak hours, popular destinations, traffic patterns. The system learned, adapted, improved.
“Maybe he’s just someone who understands the streets,” Aman said finally.
His mother studied his face. “You know, when you were small, you used to take apart everything. Your father’s radio, my kitchen timer, even your own toys. You’d spread all the pieces on the floor, and I’d worry you’d never put them back together.”
“But I always did.”
“Yes, but sometimes they worked differently afterward. Better, even.” She paused, her voice growing softer. “Your father still talks about the day you left. When you dropped out of law school after mechanical engineering didn’t work out. He was so angry…”
The memory hung between them. Twenty-two years old, standing in the doorway of his childhood home while his father’s words echoed: “If you won’t finish your studies, if you insist on chasing these business fantasies, then don’t come back until you’ve made something of yourself.”
“He asked you to leave the house,” Rashida continued quietly. “Said you were no longer welcome until you came to your senses. Then you disappeared for three years.”
Shahriar had spent those years building something his father couldn’t understand—first small logistics contracts, then the rickshaw platform that would change everything. The inheritance had been rescinded, left to his younger siblings Nargis and Rafiq instead.
“The rickshaw-wallahs, they’re good people. They work hard,” he said, steering the conversation away from old wounds.
“Shahid says this Atlas person, he doesn’t take a cut from the drivers like the old system. The app—that’s what they call it—it just connects them to passengers. The drivers keep all their earnings minus a small fee for the technology.”
Shahriar had spent months studying the traditional rickshaw system before launching his platform. The layers of middlemen, the garage owners who rented out rickshaws at exploitative rates, the local muscle who collected “protection” money. His app had bypassed all of it, connecting passengers directly to drivers while providing GPS tracking, fare calculation, and a rating system that protected both parties.
“People are saying he must be some kind of saint,” Rashida continued. “Or maybe he’s making money some other way they don’t understand.”
“Maybe he just believes everyone deserves a fair chance.”
Shahriar took another spoonful of khichuri, then asked quietly, “How are Nargis and Rafiq doing?”
His mother’s face brightened. “Oh, they’re well. Nargis had quite an adventure last week—she and her friends missed their university bus for a picnic to Savar. She was crying on the phone to me, but somehow a microbus showed up within half an hour. The driver even had snacks packed! She said it was like magic.”
Shahriar kept his expression neutral. He knew about the missed bus because his logistics network included microbus drivers who reported unusual requests through his dispatch system. When he’d seen a distress call from Savar route that morning, he’d cross-referenced the timing with his mother’s worried phone call about Nargis and arranged the special pickup. “That was fortunate.”
“And Rafiq’s been doing much better with the wholesale electronics for your father’s shop. Remember how he bungled that big order last month? Nearly cost them their partnership with the supplier.” Rashida studied her son’s face. “But then somehow new wholesale connections started calling him directly. Better prices, reliable delivery. He can’t figure out how his suppliers even found him, but he’s not complaining.”
Shahriar had quietly reached out to his logistics contacts in the electronics trade after his system flagged Rafiq’s name in a customer complaint database. A few strategic introductions, some recommendations to trusted suppliers, and his brother’s mistake had been transformed into opportunity. “Maybe he just works hard.”
His mother set down her spoon. “You know what I think? I think this Atlas person understands what it means to be invisible. To work hard but have no one see you.”
The words hung in the air between them. Aman felt the familiar tightness in his chest, the weight of the distance he maintained from everyone, even her. His phone buzzed quietly on the counter—a notification from his dispatch system. Seventeen ride requests in the last minute, all being matched to nearby drivers.
“Ma, do you remember the stories you used to tell me about the jinn? How they could move through the world, helping people, but no one ever saw them?”
“Of course. You loved those stories.”
“What if helping people doesn’t always require them to know who you are?”
Rashida reached across the table and touched his hand. “Oh, my son. You disappeared for three years, and when you came back, you were like a ghost. Present but not present. I see you once a month, I eat your beautiful food, we talk about everything except what matters, and I go home knowing you no less than when I arrived.”
Aman looked at their joined hands. His mother’s fingers were marked by decades of cooking, of caring for her family, of work that was visible, acknowledged, appreciated. His own hands looked soft by comparison, though they spent their nights coding, their days managing a network that spanned the entire old city.
“What if I told you that sometimes the best way to be part of something is to remain separate from it?” he said quietly.
“Then I would say you sound like your father when he was angry. All philosophy and no heart.” She paused. “He’s offered to restore your name to the will, you know. Multiple times. But you always refuse.”
“The inheritance is better left to Nargis and Rafiq. They’re building their futures the right way.”
“And what about your future?”
“Some things are better left unfixed.”
“And some things,” his mother said, squeezing his hand, “are better when they’re brought into the light.”
That night, after Rashida had gone home, Aman sat at his laptop reviewing the day’s data. The system had processed 2,847 rides. Average waiting time: 3.2 minutes. Customer satisfaction: 4.7 out of 5. Driver earnings up 67% compared to the traditional system.
His phone rang. The display showed “Karim—Lead Driver.”
“Atlas bhai,” came the voice. Karim was one of the first drivers to join the platform, a man in his fifties who had been pulling rickshaws for twenty years. “I wanted to thank you again. My daughter started university this month. First in our family.”
“That’s wonderful, Karim bhai. You should be proud.”
“It’s because of what you built. This system, it gave us dignity. We’re not begging for passengers anymore. We’re professionals.”
After hanging up, Aman walked to his window and looked out at the city. Somewhere in those narrow lanes, hundreds of drivers were navigating their routes, earning fair wages, supporting their families. The old system of exploitation had been replaced by something cleaner, more efficient, more just.
His mother was right about one thing—he was like a jinn, moving through the world unseen. But unlike the spirits in her stories, he had chosen his invisibility. In a city where everyone knew everyone else’s business, where success was measured by visibility and recognition, he had found power in anonymity.
As he stood there watching the city, he wondered if his mother was right about something else too. Maybe there was a difference between being invisible by choice and being invisible because you were afraid to be seen.
The rickshaw network hummed on, efficient and impersonal, carrying the city forward one ride at a time. And in his small apartment above the maze of Old Dhaka, Shahriar Aman continued his work, the man between worlds who had found a way to be everywhere and nowhere at once.
***
Three days later, Rashida sat in her kitchen, carefully folding her son’s favourite shirt—the one he’d left behind years ago when his father had asked him to leave. She’d kept it pressed and ready, just in case. On the table beside her lay her phone, still warm from a conversation with her daughter.
“Ma, the strangest thing happened,” Nargis had said during their evening call. “Remember when I missed the bus to Savar? Well, I was looking at my phone records, and I called you at exactly 9:47 a.m. The microbus arrived at 10:15. But Ma, I never called any microbus company. How did they even know where to find me?”
Rashida had made gentle, wondering sounds, asking all the right questions, expressing all the right amazement. But she remembered that morning clearly: how she’d immediately called Aman after hanging up with Nargis, how his voice had been unusually alert for someone supposedly just waking up, how he’d asked careful questions about the timing and location.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Rafiq: “Ma, you won’t believe this. Another electronics wholesaler called today. Somehow they knew about our shop, knew exactly what we needed. It’s like someone’s been watching out for us.”
She typed back: “Allah works in mysterious ways, beta. Maybe someone up there likes our family.”
But she knew it wasn’t someone up there. It was someone right here, in a small apartment twenty minutes away, monitoring data streams and dispatch systems, quietly orchestrating small miracles for strangers and family alike.
Rashida walked to her window and looked out toward Old Dhaka. Somewhere in those narrow lanes, her eldest son was probably hunched over his laptop, managing a network that touched thousands of lives. The boy who used to dismantle everything to understand how it worked had grown into a man who’d dismantled an entire system of exploitation and rebuilt it into something fair.
She thought about their dinner three nights ago, about the careful way he’d deflected her questions, about how his eyes had flickered—just for a moment—when she’d mentioned the Atlas app. How he’d gone very still when she’d talked about invisible helpers, about jinn who moved through the world unseen.
Her son had always been like that, even as a child. Too proud to ask for help, too stubborn to accept praise, but the first to notice when others needed assistance. When his father had told him to leave, Aman had walked out with his head high, never once looking back. But he’d been looking out for them ever since.
The next morning, she called him.
“Aman, beta, I was thinking about what you said. About gifts being best received without knowing who gave them.”
“Yes, Ma?”
“I think you’re right. Sometimes the most precious gifts are the ones we pretend not to notice. They let the giver keep their privacy, and the receiver keep their dignity.”
There was a long pause. “That’s very wise, Ma.”
“I was also thinking—maybe we should have dinner twice a month instead of once. I get lonely, and your khichuri is so much better than mine these days.”
Another pause, softer this time. “I’d like that.”
“Good. And Aman?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever you’re doing, wherever you are in life—I want you to know that I’m proud of you. Not because of what you’ve achieved, but because of who you are. You have your father’s brilliance and your grandfather’s heart. The combination makes you dangerous in all the best ways.”
After she hung up, Rashida made herself a cup of tea and sat back down at her kitchen table. She pulled out a notebook and began writing: “Prayers for my children.” At the top of the list, she wrote: “For Aman—may he continue to find joy in his invisible kingdom, and may those he helps never burden him with their gratitude.”
She paused, then added: “And may he always know that a mother’s love sees everything, forgives everything, and protects everything—even the secrets that keep her son safe.”
In his apartment, Aman stared at his phone long after the call ended. His mother’s words echoed in his mind: “The most precious gifts are the ones we pretend not to notice.”
For the first time in three years, he felt truly seen and simultaneously invisible—exactly as he needed to be. His mother, with her gentle wisdom, had given him the greatest gift of all: permission to remain hidden while knowing he was understood.
The rickshaw network hummed on, and somewhere in Old Dhaka, a mother’s love stood guard over her son’s chosen solitude, ensuring that the city’s invisible guardian could continue his work in peace.
Syed Shahnawaz Mohsin (pen name: Simon Mohsin) is a multidisciplinary professional with 15+ years of experience in political science, foreign affairs, business management, and media. An entrepreneur with agro, toys, and artwork ventures, he also consults in training, recruitment, and sports/health sectors. Mohsin is a certified fitness trainer, former professional cricketer, and a published writer on sports, politics, and foreign affairs. He works as a translator, editor, public speaker, and adjunct faculty member, known for his direct communication style. Recently, he has ventured into fiction, publishing short stories, flash and micro fictions, and children’s stories in Bangla and English. He has published his first Bangla socio-political novel in 2025. Mohsin is now expanding his work in academia and research on business and social sciences.
