It was a typical, gloriously chaotic morning at Sonargaon College—the kind where half the students are still brushing their teeth while sprinting across campus, and the other half are arguing about whether breakfast counts as a meal if it's just a packet of chips. Amid the confusion, something dramatic—nay, catastrophic—happened.
Shekhor, better known to the gang as Ghaura (a nickname that stuck after he once mistook a goat for a rickshaw during a school trip), was patting himself down like a man on fire. His face morphed into a tragic painting of despair.
"GUYS!" he yelped, the panic in his voice sharp enough to slice through morning fog. "My phone… it's GONE!"
Prottoy, the sharp-eyed and ever-suspicious member of the gang (nicknamed Giringi for reasons that remain as mysterious as Area 51), raised a perfectly cynical eyebrow. "Lost your phone, Ghaura? Or are we about to star in another episode of 'How to Blame Your Friends for Your Own Dumb Mistakes'?"
Montu—also known as Biri because he once accidentally smoked a pen thinking it was a cigarette—was chewing on a straw with the same smugness he used during math exams he definitely didn't study for. He glanced sideways, "Probably Raju Chumma pulling one of his idiotic pranks again."
Raju, who had earned the name 'Chumma' (not for romantic reasons, disappointingly, but because he always did things "chumma"—without reason), gave a dramatic shrug, leaning back like a Bollywood villain who just got caught but didn't care. "Me? Touch that phone? Maybe it was… a ghost?"
And so, just like that, the gang activated full Bodmaish Polapain mode. The mood shifted from casual chaos to something out of an amateur detective novel written by caffeine-fueled teenagers.
Classrooms were turned upside down. Desks were flipped like pancakes. The library was stormed with the intensity of a SWAT raid, only to find the librarian furiously whisper-yelling, "THIS IS NOT HOW YOU HANDLE A MYSTERY!"
Prottoy took command like a B-grade movie detective who thought he was Sherlock Holmes. "Shekhor, retrace your steps. Raju, check the canteen cameras—assuming this budget college even has cameras that work."
Shekhor, still on the verge of hyperventilating, recalled his last known phone moment—during lunch break. That was enough for the gang to charge toward the cafeteria like warriors on a noble quest, only their noble cause was finding an overpriced smartphone and not dying of hunger.
At the snack stall, things were strangely electric. A crowd had formed, not for the legendary beef samosas (which had once broken someone's braces), but because everyone was buzzing about a "missing phone mystery."
Raju suddenly froze. "Why is everyone acting like this is an episode of CID?"
Montu squinted at a guy by the corner table. His eyes widened. "Look! That guy over there—his pocket is glowing like Iron Man's chest. That's a phone, I swear."
Prottoy whispered dramatically, "Go, Chumma. Time to put your uselessness to use."
Raju sauntered over like he was walking the ramp at a school fashion show, where the only audience was confused crows. "Hey bro, nice phone. You lose it… or find it?"
The guy didn't even blink. "Maybe. What's it to you?"
A hush fell over the cafeteria. This was the kind of tension that made you forget your mom packed aloo paratha. Before things could go sideways, Shekhor stormed up, pointing at the phone like a furious uncle scolding street kids.
"That's MY phone! Bro, please. Just give it back."
The guy just smirked, shrugged, and delivered the age-old line of moral bankruptcy: "Finders keepers."
Montu stepped forward then, cracking his knuckles like a bad Bollywood sidekick who doesn't win fights but always starts them. His grin was wide, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Try us."
Now, to be fair, Montu's punch record was 0 wins, 3 accidental self-hits, and 1 case of knocking over a water dispenser, but his confidence was terrifying.
Before punches could fly and someone lost more than just a phone, a thundering voice cut through the cafeteria like divine thunder.
"ENOUGH!"
It was the principal, storming in like the final boss of a video game where the only weapon was parental guilt and an attendance sheet.
Prottoy stepped up, hands raised. "Sir, this guy stole the phone. We were just… conducting a citizen's investigation."
The principal, who had clearly aged five years in five seconds, sighed like a man who regretted becoming an educator. "I'll handle this. But next time, stop turning the college into an action movie set."
The crowd dispersed, disappointed there was no dramatic fight scene, and the gang quietly retreated to their usual rooftop hangout spot—their unofficial HQ.
There, under the slightly rusted water tank and a graffiti-covered wall that read "Don't study too hard, it leads to employment," they regrouped.
Shekhor, still pale but visibly relieved, held up his phone like it was a newborn. "Thanks, guys. You're the best. I thought I'd have to say goodbye to my TikTok drafts forever."
Prottoy smirked, casually leaning against a wall. "Bodmaish Polapain always got each other's backs."
Montu grinned, nudging Raju. "And sometimes throw a few punches. Or at least threaten to."
Raju, still nursing the memory of nearly confronting a phone thief, winked. "Next time, let's solve a mystery that doesn't involve Shekhor losing stuff because he probably left it on top of a samosa plate."
Shekhor laughed, his voice echoing across the rooftop. "Hey, don't judge me! That was one spicy samosa."
And as the sun dipped behind the trees of Sonargaon College, the gang lay back on the rooftop, their bond stronger than ever—one part madness, two parts loyalty, and a whole lot of laughter.
Because in the world of Bodmaish Polapain, chaos wasn't the enemy—it was the flavor of friendship.