The Man Who Stood in Silence

The Man Who Stood in Silence

By the old pond behind our house, a man stood like a statue, day after day. His name was Kishor, but no one ever heard him say it. He wore a frayed brown hat, its edges curled by years of sun and rain, and a sweater that had long lost its color to dust. His glasses, smudged and scratched, hid eyes that seemed to stare at something far beyond the murky water.

I was fourteen then, racing my rusty bicycle to school every morning. The pond was a shortcut, but I’d slow down just to watch him. Sometimes, he’d lean on a cracked brick wall, one foot propped up, as if frozen mid-step. Other times, he’d kneel by the water, trailing his fingers in circles. But he never spoke. Not even when Mrs. Rahman, our nosy neighbor, shouted, “Eh, Bhai! You’ll catch a cold!”

One autumn afternoon, curiosity got the better of me. I parked my bike and stood beside him. The air smelled of wet leaves and distant smoke. “Why do you stand here every day, Uncle?” I asked, my voice barely louder than the rustling reeds.

He turned slowly, as if waking from a dream. “Standing still… lets you hear things,” he said. “The wind carries voices you’d miss otherwise.”

I didn’t understand, but his words stuck to me like burrs. After that, I’d join him sometimes. We’d stand in silence, the pond’s surface mirroring the gray sky. Once, a kingfisher dived into the water, and he chuckled—a sound so rare it startled me.

Then, one evening, as the sun dipped behind the trees, he handed me a crumpled letter. The paper was yellowed, edges torn. “Read it,” he said, his voice cracking. “Maybe you’ll see why I wait.”

The Letter

Dear Emily,

It’s been twelve years today. Twelve monsoons, twelve winters. I still come here, just like I promised. Remember how we’d sit by this pond, your head on my shoulder, talking about running away to the city? You hated this village. Said it felt like a cage. But you stayed… for me.

That last day, you wore the blue sari with little white flowers—the one your mother gave you. You said, “Kishor, I’ll be back before the mangoes ripen.” But the mangoes rotted, Emily. The tree died two summers ago. And you…

They keep telling me to move on. Your brother even yelled, “She’s gone! Drowned in that damned river!” But I don’t believe them. Because sometimes, at dusk, I see your reflection in the water. You smile, like you used to, and for a second, the world isn’t so heavy.

I’ll keep waiting, Emily. Even if it’s just your ghost.

—Kishor

The Unseen Goodbye

The letter slipped from my hands. My throat tightened. “She… she never came back?”

Kishor shook his head. “The river took her. They found her sandal, nothing else.” He picked up a pebble and skipped it across the pond. “But what if she’s out there? Lost? Scared? If I leave… who’ll be here when she returns?”

The next morning, the pond was empty. A crowd had gathered—Mrs. Rahman, the tea-seller, even the stray dogs seemed restless. “Kishor collapsed last night,” someone said. “Took him to the hospital in Faridpur.”

Three days later, they buried him under the mango tree’s skeleton. No family came. Just villagers who’d ignored him for years. As the imam recited prayers, I slipped the letter into his grave. Let him take it wherever he’s going, I thought.

The Stone That Whispers

Years passed. I left for college, More Details I NOW