The office in Gulshan-2 smells of freshly brewed coffee and nervous ambition. It is 9:15 a.m., and already the hum of printers, the clatter of keyboards, and the soft ping of email notifications fill the air.
At the far corner of the open-plan floor, Arif sits hunched over his laptop. His desk is cluttered: half-empty tea cups, sticky notes, a cracked mobile phone charging reluctantly. He adjusts his tie—it always feels too tight, like a noose—and clicks open PowerPoint.
The blank slide glows like an empty stage. For most people, this is a headache. For Arif, it is magic.
“Arif, I need your help.”
It is Rafiq, a senior project manager, his voice urgent. His hair sticks out in damp tufts; his shirt carries sweat marks despite the office air-conditioning.
“What is it now?” Arif asks, without looking up.
“Donors’ presentation, three p.m. The deck looks like a funeral. Dead text, ugly charts. You have to fix it.”
Arif sighs theatrically. “What’s the theme this time?”
“Climate-smart agriculture in coastal Khulna.”
Arif chuckles. “Last week it was digital health. Next week it’ll be gender-friendly solar panels.”
“Just work your magic, bhai. You know you’re the only one who can pull this off.”
By noon, Arif is in his element. He sprinkles the slides with photos of green paddy fields under golden sunlight. He inserts stock images of women smiling with tablets in their hands. He animates charts so that bars rise like skyscrapers. Words slide across the screen like dancers: resilience, innovation, sustainability.
As he works, his colleagues peek over his shoulder.
“Aré wah,” one whispers, “it looks like Hollywood!”
“Brother,” another says, “how do you make farmers in Barisal look like Silicon Valley startups?”
Arif smirks. “Simple. Donors want dreams, not dirt.”
At three, the boardroom fills. The long polished table gleams under white LED lights. Donor representatives from Europe and North America shuffle papers, sip green tea.
The managing director clears his throat. “Mr Arif will present our vision.”
Arif rises, sliding and clicking. On screen, fields shimmer, charts dance, and keywords shine in bold colors. He speaks with rehearsed pauses, his voice smooth as butter.
“Global Horizons is committed to empowering communities through climate-smart technology. Imagine: every farmer with a mobile app, every household with solar resilience, and every community linked to global markets.”
The donors nod, enchanted. One whispers to another, “Brilliant. This is exactly the innovation we need.”
By the end, applause fills the room. The MD beams. “Excellent, Arif. Simply excellent.”
Later, in the smoking zone on the terrace, Arif lights a cigarette. Rafiq joins him.
“You saved us again,” Rafiq says. “Donors loved it.”
Arif exhales smoke toward the hazy Dhaka skyline. “Of course they loved it. Who cares if the farmers never touch an app? The slide was perfect.”
Rafiq hesitates. “Don’t you worry… one day someone will check?”
Arif laughs, a short, sharp sound. “No one checks. They just want to believe. And I’m the magician who makes them believe.”
Months pass. Arif’s reputation grows. He is no longer “Assistant Officer.” He is “the magician.” Whenever there’s a donor visit, he is summoned.
He buys new shirts, polished shoes, and a motorbike. His family in Mirpur boasts, “Our Arif works with foreign bosses and talks English all day.”
But at night, when he removes his tie, he stares at himself in the mirror. The face looking back seems slightly blurred, as though even he is a projection on a screen.
One evening, the MD calls him in.
“Arif, listen carefully. We have the biggest donor of all visiting next week—the Global Development Bank. Billions at stake. If we impress them, our future is secured.”
Arif nods, a thrill running through him. “Leave it to me, Sir. I’ll prepare the masterpiece.”
“Good. But remember, this is high risk. If we fail, the whole company sinks.”
For days, Arif works like a man possessed. His cubicle glows late into the night. He chooses stock photos carefully: children smiling by floodwaters, drones flying over fields, villagers with solar lamps. He invents a slogan: From Delta to Data: Building Bangladesh’s Future.
He adds music, transitions, and glowing effects. Each slide feels alive, pulsing with promise.
Colleagues whisper, “He’s lost in it. Like a sorcerer.”
The day arrives. The boardroom is transformed: white orchids on the table, polished glasses of juice, the national flag in one corner. The Global Development Bank delegates sit stiffly in suits.
The MD smiles nervously. “Mr Arif will present our vision.”
Arif stands, adjusts his tie, and clicks.
The screen floods with light. Slides bloom like fireworks. He speaks, his voice steady, words flowing like a river.
“Bangladesh is not a victim of climate change. Bangladesh is the laboratory of resilience. Look at our innovation: AI-powered shrimp farming, digital cyclone alerts, solar micro-grids…”
The room falls silent. Delegates lean forward, mesmerized. The MD’s face glows with pride.
Slide after slide dazzles, until Arif clicks the final one: a golden sunrise over rivers, the slogan shining: From Delta to Data.
Applause erupts. The lead delegate rises. “This is visionary. We are ready to fund.”
The MD shakes Arif’s hand, eyes wet with relief. “You’ve done it, magician.”
That night, Arif walks home through Gulshan’s empty streets. Streetlights blur in the mist. His body feels heavy, but his mind buzzes.
He enters his small flat, switches on the light, and opens his laptop again.
But the screen behaves strangely. Slides shuffle on their own. Images twist, charts stretch, words dance without his command.
On the screen, his own face appears—blurred, pixelated. It speaks in his voice:
“You’ve fooled them all. But what happens when the magician believes his own magic?”
Arif stares, frozen. The voice continues:
“You promised solar panels, apps, drones. Where are they? You created worlds out of nothing. Now nothing will consume you.”
The screen flickers, then goes black.
The next morning, colleagues arrive to find Arif’s chair empty. His laptop glows with a looping slide:
A world of resilience, innovation, sustainability.
But Arif is gone. Some say he fled. Others whisper he dissolved into the slides themselves, trapped forever inside PowerPoint.
At the next meeting, when a new assistant fumbles with slides, the projector glitches. For a moment, Arif’s blurred face flickers on the wall, smiling.
And a voice echoes faintly: “Donors want dreams, not dirt.”
Haroonuzzaman is a Bangladeshi translator, novelist, poet, researcher, and academic.
