People got on the cycle rickshaw one after another

When you step into the town of Mymensingh, the first thing you notice is that the road belongs not to cars but to cycle rickshaws. The sight is common across Bangladesh, but here it feels especially pronounced. The main street is packed so densely with rickshaws that they move forward like a swarm of locusts, all heading in the same direction. Motorcycles weave between them with some effort, but their numbers are far fewer, and they seem almost overwhelmed by the tide of rickshaws.

Along the roadside, even more rickshaws are drawn up, forming what looks like an improvised stand. People climb aboard one after another: housewives clutching shopping bags, students still in their uniforms, each squeezing into the small seats. Many rickshaws have their canopies drawn against the harsh sun, and from a distance the line of them resembles a miniature caravan. Yet the passengers’ faces, shaded with fatigue, make it clear that this is not some joyride for tourists, but an indispensable tool of daily life.

At the edge of this bustle, two men stood chatting idly, showing no intention of joining the flow. They lingered, absorbed in their conversation, as if the afternoon heat had slowed time itself. The flood of rickshaws passing before them seemed to demand no reaction at all. Their talk was useless in any practical sense, yet perhaps it was this very uselessness that marked it as a deeply human act. The congestion of the road was nothing more than a backdrop to their small moment of leisure.