Rakib Hasan: The man who turned our childhood that much more magical

It was 1983. Abul Kashem Mohammad Abdur Rakib—better known as Rakib Hasan—was already a familiar figure at Sheba Prokashoni. 

A quiet, intense man, he could spend entire days hunched over his typewriter, manuscripts piled high around him. Within a remarkably short time, he became one of Sheba Prokashoni's most prolific writers and translators.

Yet, even a man so consumed by creativity began to feel the weight of monotony. Every day was the same: wake up, write, edit, sleep. The silence of home had begun to feel oppressive.

One morning, in a spark of restlessness, Rakib approached Qazi Anwar Hussain, the founder of Sheba, with an unusual request. "I want to come to the office every day," he said.

Qazi Saheb laughed. "Writers don't need offices, Rakib. They need imagination."

But Rakib persisted. Perhaps, he argued, a little routine might sharpen his focus, inject energy into his writing. Finally, Qazi Saheb relented.

A small room was prepared for him at the Sheba office. Rakib, who preferred typing to handwriting, set up his typewriter, packed his lunch in a tiffin, and began riding his motorcycle daily from Mirpur. 

At first, the rhythm was exhilarating—Dhaka in those days was slow, unhurried, the morning roads wide and empty, the wind cool against his face.

But the novelty soon faded. Within weeks, the quiet office felt heavier than the solitude of home. Rakib abandoned the experiment with a wry smile.

Nonetheless, before he walked away, something extraordinary happened.

One lazy afternoon, after lunch, Rakib noticed a dusty English paperback lying on his desk—a book he had picked up from a second-hand shop long ago but never read. Its title was The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot. Curious, he wiped off the dust and opened it.

It was a children's adventure-mystery novel from the Alfred Hitchcock and The Three Investigators series. Initially, he expected nothing more than light entertainment. But almost immediately, the story captivated him—the clever dialogue, the intricate teamwork, the puzzles and mysteries, the relentless pace. By the time he reached the end, he had devoured it in a single sitting, and a smile spread across his face.

"This," he thought, "is what I would have loved to read in Bangla as a child."

That moment changed everything.

Rakib set aside the Arabian Nights translation he was earlier working on and immersed himself in the Three Investigators series. Slowly, an idea took shape: he would recreate these stories in Bangla, with local names, local sensibilities, but the same thrill, camaraderie, and sense of adventure.

When he shared the concept with his boss, Qazi Saheb didn't hesitate. "Do it," he said simply. And Rakib did.

Two years later, in August 1985, Tin Goyenda was born.

What followed was nothing short of legend. Through Tin Goyenda, Rakib Hasan opened a door to a new kind of storytelling—fast-paced, cinematic, and irresistibly engaging. 

Kishor, Musa, and Robin were not mythical heroes from a faraway past; they were ordinary kids with sharp minds, courage, and an unyielding sense of justice. For the first time, Bangladeshi children could see themselves reflected in the protagonists they read about.

For thousands of young Bangladeshis growing up in the 1980s, 1990s and even the 2000s, Tin Goyenda became their first brush with the joy of reading. It taught them to imagine, to question, to think critically. For many, it sparked a lifelong love for books. 

In a society with limited access to libraries or children's media, Rakib's stories were not just entertainment—they were education, escape, and enlightenment all at once.

Over the years, Tin Goyenda grew into a phenomenon. What began as an adaptation soon evolved into its own universe, expanding far beyond its original inspirations. 

Rakib added layers of humour, emotion, and local flavour. The characters matured, the plots became more ambitious, and the readership only grew. Even decades later, the series continues under new writers, but the foundation Rakib laid remains unshakable.

But long before he became the writer who would shape the imagination of generations, Rakib was a reader first. A voracious one. 

Born on 12 December 1950 in Cumilla, Rakib spent his childhood in Feni. In those early years, he devoured every book he could find—Bangla classics, adventure tales, thrillers, and translations of foreign stories. 

Reading wasn't just a pastime for him; it was a compulsion, a way of seeing the world—a habit that would one day shape the stories he told and the lives he touched.

He caught the writing bug quite early as well—back in eighth grade. After reading Dasyu Bahram, the idea struck him: he, too, would craft a series like that. And sure enough, he went ahead and wrote one.

The main character was a bandit named Daku Mansur. He gave the manuscript to a friend to read. The friend was full of praise. But at some point, that friend lost the manuscript. As a result, the book was never published.

For many, the childhood dream of becoming a writer ends in quiet disappointment, just like that. But Rakib was different. His unquenchable love for books kept that dream alive.

The real breakthrough came in 1977. He was around 27 years old. By then, he had read almost every Bangla book within reach. So now, he wandered around Dhaka from bookstore to bookstore in search of English books. He was especially drawn to old bookshops, where he often discovered rare and unusual titles. He became a familiar face in these places.

One day, he walked into one such secondhand bookshop. He noticed a very thin man sitting inside. Clad in pyjamas and a panjabi, his long hair was slicked back. He wore dark sunglasses and sat in a plastic easy chair, legs swinging, deeply absorbed as he smoked one cigarette after another.

The man, curious about Rakib's reading choices, struck up a conversation. He was surprised by the young man's vast knowledge of authors—many of whose names he had never even heard. They spoke about Masud Rana, about stories, and about how plots were found. Eventually, Rakib realised he was speaking to none other than Sheikh Abdul Hakim, one of the key writers behind Masud Rana.

Impressed, Hakim invited him to Sheba Prokashoni and asked him to bring a couple of plot ideas. Rakib promised ten—and arrived with twelve.

When he finally met Qazi Anwar Hussain, he felt an instant connection. That meeting marked the true beginning of his writing life—the first step that would lead him not only to create Tin Goyenda, but also to translate countless world classics and serve as assistant editor of Rahashya Patrika. Altogether, his body of work would surpass 400 titles.

Over the years, Rakib Hasan's contribution to Bangladeshi popular literature has been immense. Alongside Qazi Anwar Hussain and Sheikh Abdul Hakim, he helped define what we now call "pulp culture" in Bangladesh—a body of work that combined mass appeal with literary merit, accessibility with imagination.

Like Qazi Anwar Hussain and Sheikh Abdul Hakim, Rakib brought to Bangla readers a fast, modern rhythm of storytelling—one that could rival Western thrillers in pace and excitement while speaking in the language and idiom of Dhaka's streets.

Yet, despite his towering achievements, Rakib remained a humble, almost reclusive man. He shunned fame and rarely appeared at public events. Those who knew him describe him as soft-spoken, deeply thoughtful, and endlessly curious—a man more interested in stories than in recognition.

In his final years, well into his mid-70s and weighed down by illness, Rakib Hasan could barely read, let alone write. Yet to his millions of fans, his message remained unchanged: "Keep reading."