The whispering banyan tree.
The story of meera and the soul of the tree..
Within the heart of a calm town in West Bengal stood an enormous, old banyan tree. Its roots turned just like the fingers of overlooked mammoths, coming into the soil and sky. The villagers called it “Boroboro Gachh,” and they accepted it had a soul.For eras, individuals whispered stories almost to the tree. A few said it ensured the town. Others claimed it tuned in. But no one had ever demonstrated anything—until Arman arrived.Arman was not a villager. He was a 22-year-old college understudy from Kolkata, examining old stories. When he first heard of the banyan tree, he thought it would be just another town myth. But something about the way the ancient postmaster talked of it caught his interest.“It talks when the moon is full,” the postmaster had said, his eyes cloudy with age. “But not in words. In whispers.”Charmed, Arman pressed his sacks and traveled to the town. The individuals were inviting but cautious. They told him stories of how the tree had spared lives amid surges, how it shined faintly on certain evenings, and how feathered creatures never settled in its branches—but none would go close to it after sunset.Arman giggled it off. “Superstition,” he said to himself. But deep down, he wasn't beyond any doubt.That night, beneath a full moon, Arman set up camp close the tree. He brought a scratchpad, a voice recorder, and his camera. The villagers cautioned him once more, but he waved them off considerately.Midnight arrived. Crickets sang. The wind moved delicately. The tree stood silent—just a tree.But then… the discussion changed.It wasn't colder, but heavier. As in the event that the world was holding its breath. Arman looked up. The moonlight sparkled on the roots. And after that, exceptionally faintly, he listened to it:“Arman…”He solidified.It was a whisper. Delicate. Like wind passing through ancient leaves—but clearer.“Who's there?” he inquired, checking the obscurity.No answer.He checked his recorder. It was still running. He rewound some seconds and played it back.“Arman…”“Why have you come?”His heart dashed. The voice was there. But no one was around.Swallowing his fear, he sat back down and whispered, “I need to know your story.”Hush.Then:“Listen.” Over the following few hours, Arman listened to pieces of a tale—fragmented whispers carried by the wind. A story of a lady named Meera, who had once lived within the town centuries back. A healer, a kind soul. But amid a starvation, she was faulted for awful good fortune and blamed for witchcraft. The villagers, frantic and frightened, tied her to the banyan tree and cleared out of there.She passed on beneath the moon, shattered.The tree, fed by her blood, took in her torment. And her soul.Since at that point, Meera's soul had whispered to those who listened—not for exact retribution, but for recognition.“They overlooked me,” the tree whispered. “But I keep in mind them all.”Arman sat still, overpowered by distress he couldn't clarify. He saw flashes in his mind—of Meera's life, her thoughtfulness, and her passing. And the centuries of hush that followed.When first light drew closer, the whispers faded. The weight within the discussion lifted.The tree stood still once more.Arman didn't take off from the town. He remained for a week, tuning in each night, learning more about approximately Meera. He composed everything down. His recorder filled with ghostly, whispering voices. But the villagers refused to tune in.“They'll think you're mad,” the postmaster cautioned.“I don't care,” Arman answered. “The world ought to know.”When he returned to Kolkata, Arman distributed a paper titled “Whispers of the Forgotten.” It picked up consideration from teachers, history specialists, and otherworldly searchers. Numerous people rejected it as fiction. A few accepted. But Arman didn't care. He had listened to the truth.He returned to the town once a year, always on the night of the total moon. He sat beneath the banyan tree, not anxious, and tuned in to Meera's voice.One year, he brought blossoms.“I keep you in mind,” he whispered, putting them at the base of the tree.The branches overhung gently—though the wind was still.And from deep inside the roots, a whisper came:“Thank you.”
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The Boy Who Carried a Dream
In a quiet village nestled between the green hills of Bangladesh, lived a boy named Imran. He was only twelve years old, but his eyes sparkled with a maturity far beyond his age. He lived with his mother in a small, tin-roofed house. His father had died when Imran was just three, and since then, his mother had worked at a local rice mill to support them.Imran loved books. But not just any books—he loved science books, books about stars, planets, machines, and inventions. While other boys played football in the fields after school, Imran would sit under the old banyan tree with his nose buried in pages filled with wonder.His dream was simple: he wanted to be an engineer. Not just any engineer—but one who would create machines that could help farmers, like his neighbors, work more easily.But dreams, as Imran would learn, are expensive.His school was several kilometers away, and he walked barefoot every day to attend. The books he read were all borrowed—sometimes from school, sometimes from an old teacher who had taken a liking to the curious boy. His mother barely made enough to feed them, let alone buy extra books or materials.One night, as rain poured down from the heavens and thunder shook their little house, Imran studied by the light of a kerosene lamp. The wind blew in through the cracks in the wall, but he didn’t stop. His mother watched him quietly, a mix of pride and worry in her eyes.“You should sleep,” she said softly.“I will, Ma. Just one more chapter,” he replied, eyes still fixed on the page.Days turned into months. Imran won the district science fair with a handmade model of a solar-powered irrigation system. The local newspaper featured his photo. For the first time, people in the village began to believe—this boy might go far.But life had its tests.One day, his mother collapsed at work. The doctor said she needed surgery and months of rest. Imran was devastated. The hospital bills were beyond anything they could He stood outside the hospital, staring at the sky, tears streaming down his face. He could feel his dream slipping away.The next morning, he went to the market. He took up a job cleaning dishes at a roadside tea stall. Before school, after school, sometimes instead of school. He did whatever he could to pay for his mother’s medicine.But he never stopped reading. He carried a small notebook in his pocket where he wrote ideas, drew machines, and jotted questions he hoped to find answers to one day.One evening, as he cleaned the stall, a well-dressed man watched him curiously. The man noticed Imran scribbling in his notebook during breaks.“What are you writing, boy?” he asked.Imran hesitated but then showed him. The man flipped through the pages—diagrams, notes, even simple engineering designs. He was surprised.“Where did you learn all this?”“Books… school… I just try to learn on my own,” Imran said shyly.The man smiled. “I’m Professor Rahman. I teach at Dhaka University. Would you show me more tomorrow?”That meeting changed everything.Professor Rahman visited Imran’s house the next week. He spoke to the principal of his school and arranged a scholarship. He ensured his mother received proper medical treatment. He even brought books—so many that Imran’s little shelf overflowed.Years passed. Imran went on to study engineering at Dhaka University. He topped his class. His ideas began to attract attention. His final year project—an affordable, solar-powered water pump for rural farmers—won an international award.News spread back to the village. People gathered around the old banyan tree, reading about the boy who once walked barefoot to school and now stood on world stages speaking about innovation.Imran didn’t forget his roots.He returned to his village, not as a visitor, but as a builder. He opened a small research center to train young students. He worked with local farmers to introduce simple technologies that saved them time and effort.One day, while walking through the fields, a young boy came running to him.“Sir, I want to be like you,” the boy said.Imran smiled, handing him a small notebook.“Then start by writing your dreams here,” he said.That night, under the same banyan tree, the village children gathered around as Imran spoke—not just about machines or technology, but about belief, sacrifice, and the strength of never giving up.Because dreams, he now knew, could grow even in the hardest soil—if only someone cared to water them. afford.
By Sumaiya’s Wordbox9 months ago in History
Nanchang: A Modern Symbol of China’s Naval Power
In recent years, the world has closely watched the rapid modernization of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy (PLA Navy). One of the most important symbols of this transformation is the Nanchang (Hull 101), China’s first Type 055 guided-missile destroyer. Commissioned on 12 January 2020, Nanchang represents a major leap in naval technology and capability. As it completes six years of active service, the ship stands as a clear example of how China’s navy has moved into a new era of advanced maritime power.
By sehzeen fatimaabout 19 hours ago in History
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