About the Wharf Part-1

If the events were written in stone, how many words of the past could be read on my terrace. If you want to hear the old story, then come to my step; Keep listening to the water with attention, you will hear many long forgotten words.

I remember another day. He is exactly the same. There are two to four days left for the month of Ashwin. In the early morning, the very sweet fresh winter air is bringing new life to the sleeping body. Taru-Pallab is getting nervous a little bit.

Full Ganges. I am only four feet above the water. Water and land are like throats. Beneath the amrakana on the banks where the kachuban grows, as far as the Ganges waters go. Near that bend in the river, three old brick piers are standing in the water on all sides. The fishermen's boats, tied to the trunks of the Danga acacia trees, floated and rocked in the dawn tide -- tinged by the youthful tide, smacking on either side of them, catching their ears and shaking them in sweet mockery.

The autumn sun falling on the overflowing Ganga is the color of raw gold, the color of pressed flowers. Such a color of the sun is not seen at any other time. The sun is shining on the hilltop. The flowers have not yet bloomed, they have just started to bloom.

Saying Ram Ram, the sailors opened the boat. Just as the birds spread their wings in the light and flew happily in the blue sky, the small boats swelled their sails and went out into the sunlight. They seem like birds; They float like swans on the water, but spread their wings in the sky in joy.

Bhattacharya Mahashay has come to take bath at regular time with koshakushi. The girls have come to fetch water two by one.

It's not a long time. It may seem like a long time. But I remember this day. As my days float playfully on the stream of the Ganges, I watch it steadily for a long time -- so time does not seem long. My light of day and shadow of night fall on the Ganga every day and are erased from the Ganga every day, their image cannot be kept anywhere. Therefore, though I may look old, my heart is forever young. My sunshine has not died covered by the algae of many years of memories. At night, a broken piece of algae floats up and clings to the body, and is swept away by the current. So I can't say that there is nothing. Where the stream of the Ganges does not reach, the vines that have grown in my holes, they are the witnesses of my past, they have tied the past with love and kept it forever green and sweet, forever new. Ganga is moving away from me step by step every day, I am also getting old step by step.

The old lady of Chakraborty's house who used to take a bath and walk back home trembling with garlands and chanting, her maternal grandmother was just that. I remember he had a game, he used to float an aloe leaf in the Ganges water every day. Near my right arm was a puck; There the leaf kept turning round and round, he kept the pitcher and watched it. After a few days, when I saw that same girl again became a dagar and came to fetch water with one of her own daughters, that girl also grew up again - when the girls threw water and ran away, she also disciplined them and taught them good manners, then I remember the floating of that maiden's boat. It felt like a big joke.

I don't think the words I will say come again. One word is said and another word comes floating in the stream. Words come, words go, I can't hold back. Just one story after the other, like the boats of the aloes, drifting endlessly back and forth. A story like this is coming back to me today, sometimes it sinks, sometimes it sinks, it is very small like a leaf, there is nothing much in it, there are two flowers to play with. Seeing him drowning, the tender girl would only heave a sigh and return home.

Read More Another Story....

Part-2 COMMING..