I have made an honest attempt this year to write a series of short stories reflecting back the life in a small town 40 years ago. Some of my stories ( my mother’s stories hold Father’s tiki Bell , my Childhood Ghost story ) revolved Around PRESENCE of mystical trees Like Bamboo, Wood Around us Apple. And in association of Ghosts or atma of different times morning, noon and night, they indeed created a heady cocktail! A plump old Woman and her intriguing attachment with a tree ( drumstick tree and an old Woman’s Voice ) with a left wondering Me FEW unexplained facts of life. And not to forget all these magical moments which defined our existence and enriched us during our growing up period.
Durga Puja ( Durga in my house ) But It Was Was less about enjoying more about observing rituals half day of fasting, listening to So Much Devotion with Mantra Chant The priest, taking in Pride during bell Ringing The Evening Aarti others before and I could Grab could go on and on. On contrary Ras The Yatra ( srikrsnera rasayatra and a fairytale ) Was celebrated with more pomp and gaiety. Pandal (Bamboo made structure) adorned with paper cuttings and different birds hanging in the centre all round brought festive spirit in our drooling eyes.
Everything was there in moderation; there was entertainment, punishment and of course mystery. The mystical environment always mesmerised and embraced us. The pleasant smell of heavenly golden color Flower on Top of The terrace of DeitY Our room ( with Our Noon-phalasagachera ), The murmur of a mango tree on a typical Windy Umbrella Summer Afternoon, The Light of The Glowworm during twinkling Pitch Dark Nights Out in the open, all were ingredients of a forgotten era.
And when life became all too predictable around their presence, there was those beautiful black eyes to fall upon. It reminded of a quotation in an Art gallery Famous ‘Blessed are They see WHO in Humble Things Beautiful Places’ . I ought to say that I made peace with those radiant black henna applied eyes manifested as bird’s nest in a Jibananda classic. And the rest is a fairytale waiting to be unfolded.