The Road Beyond the Horizon
Imran Laskar
Mamun was a boy whose brilliance in mathematics lit up the corridors of his modest school in Badu village. The teachers spoke of him with pride, and his classmates marveled at his talent, which seemed to outstrip even the bounds of their textbooks. But Mamun was not just a boy who solved equations—he was a seeker, yearning to unravel the secrets of the universe. Numbers, logic, and reason were his religion, and in their precision, he found clarity. He was drawn to the works of Bertrand Russell and Roger Penrose, devouring their books late into the night, his fingers flipping pages as if each one would unlock a new layer of the cosmos.
Mamun questioned everything. To him, the concept of God was riddled with contradictions. If God existed, could He destroy Himself? If He could not, was He truly omnipotent? If He could, was He truly eternal? These paradoxes left Mamun unconvinced, and he turned instead to the certainty of mathematics, where every problem had an answer—if only you could find it.
But life, Mamun was learning, was far messier than mathematics.
For a month now, his body had betrayed him. Weakness clung to him like a shadow, and his energy waned like a fading candle. At first, he brushed it off, his rational mind dismissing the symptoms as trivial. Yet the weight of his condition became undeniable. His father, a stoic vegetable seller who had raised him alone since his mother's death, watched helplessly as Mamun’s strength ebbed away. Mamun's father had sacrificed everything for him—new shoes, new clothes, even the prospect of remarriage—all for the sake of his son’s education and dreams.
One evening, Mamun’s math teacher, Gautam Sarkar, arrived at their humble home, concern etched on his face. Gautam sir was more than a teacher to Mamun; he was a mentor, a guide, someone who had seen the spark in the boy and nurtured it. When Mamun’s condition didn’t improve, Gautam sir insisted on taking him to Kolkata for a proper diagnosis.
The news was devastating. Both of Mamun’s kidneys had failed. The doctor’s words hit him like a blow: dialysis was the only option. The weight of the revelation bore down on him, his once-clear world now murky with uncertainty and fear.
That night, Mamun lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling of their home. His father was asleep on the floor beside him, his rough hands folded under his head. Those hands had carried sacks of vegetables to market every day, had cooked meals for him when he was too small to hold a spoon, had written a life of sacrifice in their calluses. Mamun’s chest tightened as he thought of his father’s unspoken dreams—dreams he had put aside for Mamun’s future.
Tears blurred his vision as questions tore through his mind. Why him? What law of the universe had dictated this cruel twist? If the world truly operated on the unerring principles of physics and mathematics, then what equation had justified this suffering? What theorem explained the pain etched in his father’s face or the emptiness he felt in his own heart?
Mamun closed his eyes and imagined a different life—a life where his father wore new clothes, where they laughed together over hot tea, where they traveled to Darjeeling for Eid. A life where his body wasn’t failing him. But reality was unforgiving, and the boy who sought answers to the universe's greatest mysteries now found himself grappling with questions too heavy for any formula to solve.
The stars outside his window blinked indifferently, their ancient light traveling through the void. Mamun wondered if somewhere out there, in the vastness of the cosmos, lay the answer to his "why." Perhaps the universe, in all its enormity, had no answers at all—only questions waiting to be asked.
Today, Mamun’s heart longed for something unknown, something beyond his grasp, a power he could neither name nor comprehend. His thoughts wandered to the idea of God—not the God of scriptures or sermons, but a force that might exist beyond the consciousness of death, lingering in the shadow of fear. For the first time, life felt achingly beautiful to him. The bed he had lain on countless nights now seemed like an old friend, offering a warmth and familiarity he had never truly noticed before. The moonlight spilling through the window, the vast sky above, and the earthy scent of his village—all of it felt precious, like treasures he had overlooked until this very moment.
Sleep came softly, carrying him into a dream. He found himself running along an endless road. The path stretched into eternity, with no sign of its beginning or its end. He ran with every ounce of strength he could summon, though he had no idea where he was going or why he was running. Time felt strange here, slipping past him in a way he couldn’t measure. He only knew that he had to keep going.
Then, without warning, he stumbled. Pain seared through his leg, sharp and unrelenting, as though something had torn into his flesh. He collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, unable to move. Panic gripped him as he examined his leg, searching for the wound that must have caused such agony. But there was nothing. No cut, no blood—just the unbearable pain, raw and consuming.
He sat there, helpless, and called out for help, his voice trembling with desperation. Only then did he notice them—the others. All around him, people were scattered along the road, silent shadows of suffering. A man ahead of him was moaning softly, his body frail and trembling, as if it might crumble at any moment. Further down, two figures crawled along the ground, their movements sluggish, their faces etched with despair.
“What happened to you?” Mamun asked, his voice filled with both fear and compassion. “Why are you like this?”
One of the figures didn’t even lift his head. Another turned to him, whispering in a voice so faint it was barely audible, “I can’t remember the last time I ate. That’s why I have no strength to walk.”
Mamun’s heart sank as he stumbled backward, his eyes scanning the road for answers. That’s when he saw her. A young girl lay motionless on the ground. Her arms were gone, as if some savage creature had torn them away. Her eyes—those once-bright windows to the soul—were hollow, empty, as though vultures had claimed them. A wave of sorrow swept over him. How had this happened to her? How could she die like this, unseen, unnoticed? He looked around, desperate for someone to notice, to care, but at that moment, three figures ran past him. They didn’t stop. They didn’t even glance at her. It was as if she didn’t exist.
Mamun stood frozen, his heart pounding, when a young man appeared before him. He looked familiar, yet Mamun couldn’t place him. “Do I know you?” Mamun asked, his voice barely steady.
The young man nodded faintly. “I started running with you,” he said. “But I was weak, so I fell behind. You kept going.” His face was pale, his body bruised and scarred, a map of pain etched into his very being. Mamun’s eyes filled with questions. “What happened to you? What are these marks?” he asked softly.
The young man sighed, his voice heavy with resignation. “If you can’t run fast, the guards beat you. They didn’t touch you because you’re strong. But I wasn’t. My parents, my brothers, my sisters—they were behind me. They helped me as much as they could, but eventually, I fell behind.”
The young man tried to stand, but his legs gave way beneath him, trembling with the weight of his suffering. Mamun stared at him, his chest tightening with an emotion he couldn’t name. Was this the end of the road for him? For all of them? Or was the road something more than just pain and exhaustion—something that held answers he couldn’t yet see?(Continue....)