Part VII:
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Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5
Whispers of Redemption
Arun and Anjali returned to the village, the box of letters carefully tucked away. The discovery had left them both emotionally drained yet determined to give Prakash and Meera the justice they deserved.
“We have the letters,” Anjali said as they sat beneath the banyan tree that evening. “But how do we bring their story to life in a way that truly honors them?”
Arun stared at the branches overhead, the leaves swaying gently in the night breeze. “Through words,” he said. “We’ll write their story—not as a tragedy, but as a testament to their love and courage.”
Anjali nodded, her eyes glistening. “And we’ll share it with the world. People need to know that even in the darkest times, love can shine like a beacon.”
The next morning, Arun began writing. He poured his heart into every sentence, weaving together the fragments of Prakash and Meera’s lives into a narrative that captured their essence. He described their secret meetings under the banyan tree, their dreams of freedom, and the ultimate sacrifice they made for love.
As he wrote, Arun couldn’t help but reflect on his own life. Prakash and Meera’s story made him realize how much he had taken for granted—his family, his friendships, his ability to love freely.
Anjali, meanwhile, took it upon herself to gather more support for their project. She spoke to villagers, journalists, and historians, sharing snippets of the letters and inviting them to contribute their insights.
The response was overwhelming. The villagers, once hesitant to discuss the past, began to open up. They shared anecdotes about Prakash and Meera, painting a vivid picture of their lives.
One elderly man recalled how Prakash had taught children under the banyan tree, using the shade as his classroom. “He believed education was the key to freedom,” the man said, his voice trembling with emotion.
Another woman remembered Meera’s kindness. “She would bring food for the poor, even when her own family disapproved. She had a heart of gold.”
The letters, combined with these personal accounts, began to form a powerful narrative. Arun and Anjali decided to host a public reading of the story under the banyan tree, inviting the entire village.
On the day of the event, the tree was adorned with garlands of flowers, its branches shimmering with tiny lanterns. The villagers gathered, their faces lit with a mixture of anticipation and reverence.
As Arun read aloud, his voice steady but charged with emotion, the crowd listened in rapt silence. When he reached the final letter—the one addressed to the future—there wasn’t a dry eye in the audience.
The event ended with a moment of silence for Prakash and Meera, followed by a vow to preserve their legacy. Arun looked around at the faces in the crowd, their expressions filled with a renewed sense of purpose.
“We’ve done it,” Anjali whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “We’ve brought them back to life.”
RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI,ASSAM ,INDIA
18/01/2025
The book is expected shortly .
PLEASE ENCOURAGE AND COMMENT
A new anthology where I am a Co- Author is now published .
Part VI: Secrets of the Estate
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The following morning, Arun decided to visit the abandoned zamindar’s estate. The sprawling mansion, once a symbol of power and wealth, now stood in ruins. Vines crawled up its crumbling walls, and the air was thick with the scent of decay.
“Do you think we’ll find anything here?” Anjali asked as they stepped inside, their footsteps echoing in the empty hallways.
“If the zamindar was as cruel as they say, this place might hold answers,” Arun replied.
They began exploring the estate, their eyes scanning every corner for signs of Prakash and Meera. In the grand hall, they found faded portraits of the zamindar’s family, their stern faces frozen in time.
“I can’t imagine living in a place like this,” Anjali said, shivering despite the warm breeze filtering through the broken windows.
“It’s as if the walls themselves are haunted,” Arun said, his voice low.
Their search led them to the basement, a dark, musty space that reeked of neglect. As they navigated the labyrinth of rooms, Anjali stumbled upon an iron door partially concealed by debris.
“Arun! Over here!” she called out.
Arun hurried over, his heart pounding. Together, they cleared the debris, revealing the door in its entirety. It was heavy and rusted, but after some effort, they managed to pry it open.
Inside was a small, windowless room. The walls were lined with shelves, and on one of them sat a wooden box, its lid intricately carved. Arun opened it cautiously, revealing a collection of letters tied together with a red ribbon.
“These must be theirs,” Anjali said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Arun untied the ribbon and began reading. The letters were written by Prakash, addressed to Meera, but never sent. They spoke of his fears, his hopes, and his undying love for her.
“My dearest Meera,
Every moment apart from you feels like an eternity. The world may stand against us, but my love for you remains steadfast. If this is to be our end, let it be one filled with the knowledge that we dared to love in a world that feared it.”
Tears welled up in Anjali’s eyes as she read over Arun’s shoulder. “They knew what they were up against,” she said. “And yet, they chose love.”
As they sifted through the letters, Arun found one addressed not to Meera, but to the future.
“To whoever finds this,
If you’re reading these words, know that love is the greatest rebellion. It is the force that binds us, transcending time and space. Our story may end here, but let it inspire you to fight for what matters most. In love, there is freedom. In freedom, there is life.”
The words struck Arun like a bolt of lightning. He folded the letter carefully and placed it back in the box.
“They wanted their story to be told,” he said. “And we’re the ones to do it.”
As they left the estate, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the village. Arun felt a renewed sense of purpose. Prakash and Meera’s love had been buried for decades, but now, it would rise again, a testament to the power of the human spirit.
RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI,ASSAM ,INDIA
14/01/2025
Part V: The Forgotten River
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Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5
Arun and Anjali’s quest to unravel Prakash and Meera’s story brought them to the banks of the river Sameer had mentioned. The river, once a vital lifeline for the village, was now a shadow of its former self. Its waters, once pristine and abundant, had receded, leaving behind patches of dry, cracked earth.
“It must have been beautiful back then,” Anjali said, her gaze scanning the landscape.
Arun nodded. “And it was here their story came to an end—or so we’ve been told.”
Determined to explore the site further, they wandered along the riverbank, looking for any clues that might offer a glimpse into the past. As they walked, an old woman approached them, her frail frame supported by a wooden cane.
“You’re looking for something?” she asked, her voice quivering but sharp.
Arun and Anjali exchanged glances before Arun replied, “Yes, Dadi. We’re trying to learn about what happened to two people—Prakash and Meera—many years ago.”
The woman’s face softened. “Prakash and Meera… their love was the kind you hear about in stories. But the world wasn’t kind to them.”
“Did you know them?” Anjali asked.
“I was a child then,” the woman said. “But I remember the day they tried to cross the river. The zamindar’s men caught them. My father worked for the zamindar. He told me they were taken back to the estate. No one saw them after that.”
“Do you know what happened to them?” Arun asked, his voice steady despite the knot in his stomach.
The woman hesitated, her eyes clouded with memories. “Some say the zamindar locked them away, that they died in his dungeons. Others believe they were thrown into the river, their love and lives swept away by the current. But the truth? Only the river knows.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with sorrow. Arun thanked her before she hobbled away, leaving them alone by the river.
“That’s it, then,” Anjali said, her voice tinged with frustration. “We’re back to speculation. No proof, no closure.”
Arun stared at the river, its waters shimmering under the afternoon sun. “Maybe we’re not meant to find closure,” he said. “Maybe the uncertainty is part of their story. It forces us to imagine, to remember, to keep their love alive in our hearts.”
As they left the river, Arun couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something—a key detail that tied everything together.
RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI,ASSAM ,INDIA
13/01/2025
(C) All rights reserved by the author
Instagram @rajatchandrasarmah5
4. He signed up for gym
packed his workout gear and took a few
photos
but after one session he never went back.
It takes more than that he Twitted sinking into
couch with a sigh, It needs time you know.
5. At family dinner everyone sat quietly
heads bent over phones.
Grandma leaned in and whispered to Grandpa
at least they’re quiet.
6. Politician promised
we’ll fix everything in 100 days
but 200 days later they were still blaming
everything on past.
Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati , Assam , India
12/01/2025
(C)All rights reserved by the author
Instagram :@rajatchandrasarmah5
4. Fitness Goals
“He paid for a gym membership, posted photos of his protein shake, and quit after one session.
‘Results take time,’ he tweeted from the couch.”
5. The Smartphone Generation
“At the family dinner, everyone stared at their phones.
Grandma whispered, ‘At least they’re quiet.’”
6. Powerful Words
“The politician promised, ‘We’ll fix everything in 100 days!’
200 days later, they still blamed the last 100 years.”
Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati , Assam India
11/01/2025
Part IV: Echoes in the Wind
( c) All right reserved by the author
Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5
Over the next few days, Arun and Anjali continued their quest to uncover the truth about Prakash and Meera. The village seemed alive with whispers of the past, each conversation adding a new layer to the story they were piecing together.
One afternoon, Anjali burst into Arun’s home, her face alight with excitement. “I found something!” she exclaimed, holding up a yellowed notebook.
“What is it?” Arun asked, his heart skipping a beat.
“It’s a journal,” Anjali said. “I came across it in the archives. It belonged to someone named Raghunath, who was a close friend of Prakash. He wrote about their meetings under the banyan tree and the challenges they faced.”
Arun’s hands trembled as he took the journal. The pages were fragile, the handwriting neat but hurried, as though the writer had been racing against time.
The entries painted a vivid picture of Prakash and Meera’s struggles. They spoke of secret meetings, coded messages, and plans for a future together. But they also revealed the growing threat posed by Meera’s father, who had vowed to put an end to their love.
“July 15, 1947,
Prakash is restless. Meera’s father has threatened to marry her off to a zamindar in another district. She’s terrified, but she refuses to back down. They’ve decided to elope, but the risks are enormous. I can see the weight of it all pressing down on Prakash. He’s torn between his love for Meera and his duty to the movement.”
“July 19, 1947,
The banyan tree is their sanctuary. They meet there every evening, hidden from prying eyes. It’s as though the tree shields them, its branches spreading wide like arms offering protection. But even the tree cannot keep them safe forever. Prakash has asked me to help them. I don’t know if I have the courage to defy Meera’s father, but how can I let them face this alone?”
The entries ended abruptly, leaving Arun and Anjali with more questions than answers.
“We have to find out what happened after that,” Arun said, his voice resolute.
Anjali nodded. “Maybe the elders know more. Or perhaps there’s someone who remembers Raghunath. He could have passed down the story to his family.”
Their search led them to Raghunath’s grandson, Sameer, who still lived in the village. He was a quiet man in his late sixties, his eyes filled with the wisdom of a life well-lived. When Arun and Anjali explained their purpose, Sameer nodded slowly.
“I remember my grandfather talking about Prakash and Meera,” he said. “He admired their courage, but their story haunted him till his last days. He always said they deserved better.”
“What happened to them?” Arun asked, leaning forward in anticipation.
Sameer sighed. “They tried to elope, but Meera’s father found out. His men caught them near the river, not far from here. No one knows exactly what happened, but they were never seen again. My grandfather believed they were… silenced.”
A heavy silence settled over the room. Arun felt a lump in his throat, the weight of the tragedy pressing down on him.
“Why didn’t anyone do anything?” Anjali asked, her voice trembling.
“It was a different time,” Sameer said. “The zamindar’s power was absolute. People were too afraid to stand up to him.”
As they walked back to the banyan tree, Arun couldn’t shake the image of Prakash and Meera, their dreams cut short by cruelty and greed.
“They were fighting for freedom, not just for the country, but for themselves,” he said. “And yet, they were denied even that.”
Anjali placed a hand on his arm. “But their love endured, Arun. It lives on in these letters, in the stories people tell, and in this tree. Maybe that’s their legacy.”
That evening, Arun sat under the banyan tree once again, his thoughts heavy with the weight of the past. He looked up at the branches, their leaves shimmering in the fading light.
“Prakash. Meera,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll tell your story. The world will know who you were and what you stood for.”
As the wind rustled through the leaves, Arun felt a strange sense of peace, as though the tree itself was offering him its blessing.
RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI,ASSAM ,INDIA
09/01/2025
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