The Story of Bengal’s Seasons: Life Touched by Six Rhythms

Chapter 1: The Scorching Smile of Summer

My name is Mrināl. My parents call me Mrināl. We live in a small village in Netrokona. My earliest memory is of a summer afternoon—sunlight piercing through our hut, riding my father’s shoulders to pluck mangoes, and sipping cold bel sherbet made by my mother. Summer in our village smells of Amrapali, Langra, and Hari Bhanga mangoes. But this season isn’t just sweet nectar. A year ago, when I was in sixth grade, a brutal heatwave dried up our pond. Our cows nearly died of thirst. That’s when Grandfather told me, Summer is nature’s test. Only those who endure reap the harvest in monsoon.

That year, in mid-Joishtho, black clouds gathered. We thought rain would come, but instead, a Nor’wester storm struck. The ancient banyan tree in our courtyard was uprooted. Mother hugged me and wept. The next morning, we found a green sapling sprouting from a clay pot buried under the fallen tree. Grandfather said, See, Mrināl? Nature heals its own wounds.

Chapter 2: Monsoon’s Watery Cry

On the first day of Asharh, the clouds roared. The river beside our house swelled like a bloated serpent. Monsoon is my favorite season—Father rows me to school in a boat, water hyacinths float on the currents, and the horizon drowns in green. But that year, the rains arrived furious. Three days of relentless downpour broke the river embankment. Floodwater invaded our courtyard. Mother and I stacked rice sacks into makeshift barriers, while Father and Grandfather filled sandbags all night.

One evening, I saw a calf swept away from our cowshed. Without thinking, I jumped into the murky water. The current dragged me under until a strong hand yanked my hair. It was our neighbor, Shafiq Uncle. He said, Monsoon doesn’t just destroy Mrināl—it births new seeds. The next day, we planted rice saplings in the silt left by the receding flood.

Chapter 3: Autumn’s Silver Light

Ashwin skies are like blue silk. Autumn meant threshing rice at Grandfather’s house, women winnowing grains in bamboo trays, and dancing with kash flowers. Last autumn, though, brought an unexpected guest—a Japanese photographer, Mr. Tanaka, came to capture our kash fields and water lilies. I took him to the hair wetlands, where thousands of migratory birds soared. He asked me, Do your seasons change people’s hearts?

I didn’t answer. But that autumn, my little brother Sajal fell ill with malaria. Mother stayed awake all night, cooling his fever. I learned that beneath autumn’s beauty lurked the terror of mosquitoes. Yet there was hope—Mr. Tanaka gave us mosquito nets.

Chapter 4: Winter’s Fading Face

In Kartik, our village roads carpet with shiuli blossoms. Winter mornings were for collecting date palm sap with friends. But last winter, Grandfather fell gravely ill. The doctor said age had weakened his lungs. I brewed neem-leaf tea for him daily. One day, he held my hand and whispered, **"Winter is the season of farewells, Mrināl. Leaves fall, but the tree remains.

By month’s end, he was gone. Beside his bed lay a dried kash flower I’d picked in autumn. At his cremation, Mother said, He’s part of the seasons’ cycle now.

Chapter 5: Winter’s Mist-Kissed Love

Poush mornings glitter with dewdrops. Winter pains Mother—her hands crack with rashes—yet to me, it feels magical. Last year, a traveling theater group staged *"Molua Sundori"* under our banyan tree. A young actor named Robin asked me, Have you ever been to the city?

His words made me wonder if winter’s fog hid life’s unanswered questions. I replied, Grandfather said winter teaches us to reflect."** When Robin left, he gave me a poetry book. One page read: Poush’s stars burn in the cold but never die.

Chapter 6: Spring’s Enchanted Hues

On the first day of Falgun, our school held the Spring Festival. Girls wore yellow saris and basanti flowers. Last spring, I fell in love—not with a person, but with nature. Our withered pomegranate tree bloomed crimson. Mother gasped, This tree was dead for five years! A magpie robin perched on its branch.

That spring, I vowed to protect nature. Robin’s book had a line: Seasons are Earth’s breath. I realized Bangladesh’s six seasons don’t just give crops—they teach us to survive.

Epilogue: The Eternal Song of Seasons

Today, I study Environmental Science at Dhaka University. In every research paper, I write: Seasons change, but these six rhythms live in our memories. Last month, I visited our village. Cracked summer soil sprouted grass, monsoon water hyacinths bore lotuses, and sheuli petals covered Grandfather’s grave.

Suddenly, I heard his voice: Seasons aren’t just time’s dance, Mrināl. They’re family—each leaves a story behind.

As crane flocks painted the sky, I smiled. Just as Bangladesh’s seasons return cyclically, life whispers hope that what’s lost may yet be found. Such are Bengal’s six seasons—life’s joy and sorrow, birth and death, and nature’s unyielding song.