The Monsoon Lullaby

Late one monsoon evening in a quiet village on the outskirts of Dhaka, a young teacher named Leila made her way home through winding mud lanes. The rain had eased, leaving the air thick with the scent of wet earth and jasmine. As she passed the old banyan tree that marked the turn toward her house, she heard the faintest melody drifting on the breeze—a lullaby, sung in a child’s voice.

Curious, Leila paused beneath the tree’s broad canopy. The branches swayed, though there was no wind, and ahead she thought she saw a pale figure gliding between the shadows. The lullaby grew clearer: gentle, coaxing, as if calling her name. Leila’s heart pounded, yet she felt compelled to follow the song.

She stepped onto a narrow footbridge over a slow-moving canal. There, suspended by moonlight, floated the small form of a girl in an old-fashioned white frock. The child smiled, eyes sorrowful but kind, and beckoned Leila closer. The lullaby ceased. In the hushed quiet, the girl whispered, “Will you help me find her?”

Leila swallowed her fear. “Find who?” she asked.

“My mother,” the ghostly girl replied, voice echoing like a distant bell. “I’m lost.”

Summoning courage, Leila held out her hand. The child’s fingers were cool as mist. They crossed the bridge together, following the canal’s curve toward the old zamindar’s mansion—abandoned since the cyclone ten years before. Moonlight revealed cracked pillars and shattered windows. Inside, the air was still, heavy with memories.

In the grand drawing room, dust motes danced in searchlights of moonbeams. Leila’s flashlight fell upon a portrait above the faded mantel: a woman in an embroidered sari, cradling a baby. The ghost-child touched the frame and pointed to the painting. “Mama,” she breathed.

Suddenly the room chilled. The portrait’s eyes seemed to glisten, and a soft sigh filled the air. A second, more translucent figure emerged beside the painting: the woman, dressed in mourning white, hair streaked with silver and sorrow. She looked upon her daughter with longing, tears silently falling.

Leila watched, heart aching, as mother and child reunited in that silent hall. The lullaby rose again, this time in two voices, entwined in a final farewell. As the last note faded, the figures melted into the moonlight, leaving only their smiles and the gentle echo of love remembered.

In the morning, Leila found a single jasmine blossom on the dusty floor of the drawing room—fresh, fragrant, and resting atop the portrait’s frame. She left it there as a gift, knowing the restless spirits had finally found their peace. And each rainy night thereafter, villagers would swear they heard a lullaby drifting through the village—happy notes, carried on the monsoon wind.