Skip to main content

A Fine Sunday.

I thought to let loose my flow of feelings. I believe, that is the only process, which will allow me to soak the day more clearly. It was a regular day, a very usual. But it was a Sunday, I sharply remember. Everyone was at home. I was busy doing some chores. Soon after finishing, I leaped upstairs at the terrace. Witnessing the full stretched Sun, I went near mom and sat beside her. She whispered and said, "eta dekh". I said, "keno? ki eta, ke banalo?" holding a paper Airplane. A bit dusty and half crooked. She said, "por bhetore ki lekha ache". I was both amazed and curious at the same time. Just to see what is written inside. I pulled each strand of the page, delicately, and found a sentence written. " Amader saathe kotha bolo"

I wonder who wrote it. The moment I started thinking, mom held my hand and said, "ora pathiyeche". As I now got my answer. I kept the plane where I sat, and went to them. To actually talk. Then we talked and tagged as friends. It was the walls that separated us. Rishi and Rusha. Both are siblings. Both of them then and there declared the plan. About how to blow out a portion of each of our walls. They also told me, about how they will build a bridge between. So that we can meet often. Rishi told me he will buy a boat anchor. So that he can tie a rope with that. At one end he will tie the anchor, and to another, he will tie it with his waist. He said he will ask his sister, Rusha to hold one of his legs. Then they will throw the anchor to our terrace, and they promised us that they will land safely. We laughed. Just to lighten their thought process and to extinguish their dangerous imaginary desire. But the major thing which made me write is about their desperate wants to 'Talk'. I ponder how lonely they must be feeling, and to get out of that solitariness. They wrote us a letter. Everyday they are sending me the paper planes whenever they do not get to see me. Don't you think, it was a call for help? I believe standing beside humans is a noble act. Keep supporting, spread humanism. Happy Valentine's Day!

The pictures were being captured the very next day.

Comments

  1. You are a pretty mature writer for your age..

    ReplyDelete
  2. অ নি মি খMarch 16, 2023 at 5:36 AM

    This incident was cute but nowadays this study and competitiveness stole their "শৈশবকাল" and your writing is mature.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A City that Never Called

When I was in my late teens, I wished to walk down the streets of my city. The city of joy, Kolkata or maybe Calcutta. Apparently, it remained a wish, which did not get a chance to turn to reality. Although, Kolkata is a reality to others. But for me it is surreal. A place, away from my daily business. Even though, I belong here. Roamed to and fro from where I did my master's. Kolkata never called me. It never asked my hands for a stroll, and that is unfortunate to me. Unseen remained as it is. Being mysteriously aloof at this point in life. Made me pen this write-up without a purpose in mind. Pardon my purposelessness. But I assure you, that this will nonetheless confront your relationship with your city. Does Kolkata unfailingly have to throw at us a purpose? If yes, then why? Why can't we walk on its heart without a reason? Either Sun or rain always punctures my plans and urge. Especially, Mr. Rain. It caused me what not. Or is it me the reason behind not pushing myself to ...

I Got My Back

You cannot find me anywhere, Hold on, are you trying to reach out? I must warn you from doing that. I shall never return, To whom I was not, To which I failed to become. I am the hush between collapsing stars, The echo’s echo in abandoned halls. Once flesh, once name, once need . . . now mist, An afterthought the dusk forgot to list. Why do you seek me in ruins and rhyme, Threading your breath through the seams of time? I unstitched my shadow from memory’s shawl, And walked backward through silence, leaving no call. I am not the voice you remember in June, Nor the ghost that wept by the spill of the moon. Your yearning is kindling for a long-dead flame, But ash has no longing, and dust bears no name. Would you summon a wind to cradle the storm? Would you weave warmth into what was never warm? I, a figment of what never fully awoke, Am beyond the grasp of regret you invoke. Do not knock on the door of the undone, Where twilight and sorrow bleed into one. I reside...

Tint and Shade

Nights make me realize why I was born. The purpose lies so clean, so sheer, I almost see the parallel universe. Am I writing or just at some slumber party in that other world, wrapped in cosmic silk, laughing with my forgotten selves? It sounds flaky, I know. But it's a glass-skin kind of realization, translucent, impossible, almost unachievable. Still, it clings to me. My monochromatic musings must have been tedious for you. I know I become I-centric. But what else can I do? Somebody has to speak my language. Somebody has to understand me. Somebody has to be my spokesperson. Because there was absolutely no one when I was dragged through the bumpy, unpaved road trip of life. Believe me when I say life asked to see me naked. And not metaphorically. It was a demand, a confrontation, raw and unrelenting. So under the elusive canopy of night, when most lives fold neatly into silence, I felt the spectral tug of existence. Not in the noisy glare of day, but in the gossamer hours when tim...