Bangla Story

Weeks passed, then months. I grew taller, my schoolwork grew more demanding, and the days seemed to blur into one another. Yet, no matter how busy or distracted I became, every morning, without fail, I would eagerly wait for the familiar voice of the fruit seller. He had become a part of the rhythm of my life. His presence in the lane had become as routine as the sunrise. He never missed a day. The neighborhood seemed incomplete without him, and I grew so accustomed to his visits that I began to look forward to seeing him as much as I looked forward to the sound of the birds outside my window.

Then, one day, something changed. I woke up early, just like every other morning, and sat at my window, eagerly peering out for the first sign of him. But he didn’t come. I waited a little longer, but there was still no sign of the fruit seller. I brushed it off, thinking maybe he had been delayed. Maybe there was a problem with his cart, or perhaps he had gone to the market a little earlier than usual. But the next day came, and still no fruit seller. Nor did he come the day after that. Then, a whole week went by, and I began to feel a strange emptiness in the street. The familiar sound of his call, “Fruit! Fresh fruit!” that I had come to cherish, was gone. The lane felt quieter, less alive without him.

I began to wonder where he had gone. I asked my neighbors if they had seen him, but no one had any clear answers. Some said they had seen him packing his basket and leaving early one morning. Others said that perhaps he had fallen ill. Some even speculated that he had gone back to Kabul. No one was sure. But for a young boy, without the understanding of what it meant to be far from home or to face hardships, the absence of the fruit seller was a quiet sorrow. The man who had brought so much color to my days seemed to have simply vanished, leaving behind only a void.

It was only when I had almost resigned myself to never seeing him again that something remarkable happened. One afternoon, just as the weather turned gray and the wind began to smell of rain, I looked out of my window and saw him. It was him, though he looked different—slower, older, and much more tired. He walked with a slight limp, his broad shoulders hunched under the weight of time and hardship. His basket, usually so full of vibrant fruits, was now empty. And though he was still the same man I had come to know, the smile that had once been so full of life seemed faint, as though worn down by a great deal of sorrow and weariness.

I rushed outside to meet him, heart pounding with both excitement and relief. “You came back!” I cried out, the words escaping my lips without thinking.

He looked at me, his tired eyes softening, and smiled faintly. “Only to say goodbye,” he replied, his voice low and full of emotion, as if he had carried the weight of the world for far too long.

He reached into his robe and pulled out a small bundle, wrapped carefully in a red cloth. He handed it to me. “For you,” he said, his voice full of affection. “From my daughter. She made it.”

I unwrapped the bundle and found a small wooden horse on wheels, carefully carved, with delicate, intricate details that I had never expected. It was a simple gift, yet it carried so much more meaning than anything I could have imagined. The gesture was a symbol of his love for his daughter, and now, through this gift, he was passing that love on to me.

“I go home now,” he said softly, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “But remember, little friend, some friendships live in the heart, even across mountains.”

He placed his hand on my head in a gentle, fatherly gesture, as if offering a blessing. And with that, he turned and began to walk away, his figure slowly fading into the distance. I stood there, holding the wooden horse in my hands, my heart heavy with a sense of finality I didn’t want to accept. This man, who had been such a constant presence in my life, was now leaving, and with him, a part of my childhood was slipping away too.

That was the last time I saw the fruit seller.

Years have passed since then. I am no longer the small boy sitting by the window, eagerly waiting for the fruit seller to pass by. Life has taken me to different places, and I have grown, changed, and learned. But the memory of the fruit seller, the warmth of his smile, and the simple yet profound lessons he imparted remain with me.

Even today, when I sit at my desk, I can see the wooden horse sitting on the shelf beside me. It’s old now, with a few chips and marks from years of use, but it still carries the memory of that man and his kindness. Sometimes, when the world feels too busy or too loud, I close my eyes, and for a moment, I can still hear his voice echoing through the lane, “Fruit! Fresh fruit!” And with that sound, I remember that some friendships don’t need to last forever to leave an everlasting mark on the heart.

The fruit seller from Kabul may have been a brief part of my life, but his memory will always remain a constant, reminding me that love, kindness, and friendship can transcend time and distance.