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

Part III: Whispers of the Village:

( c) All right reserved by the author

Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5

The next day, Arun and Anjali set out to uncover the story of Prakash and Meera. Their first stop was the tea stall near the banyan tree, a place where the village’s elders gathered every morning. The aroma of freshly brewed chai mingled with the earthy scent of dew-soaked soil, and the hum of conversations filled the air.

As they approached, Arun spotted Gopal Kaka, who had been among the first to greet him upon his return. He was seated on a wooden bench, surrounded by three other men of his age, each clutching a clay cup of tea.

“Arun! Anjali!” Gopal Kaka called out, waving them over. “What brings you two here so early?”

Arun sat beside him, placing the tin box on the table. “Kaka, I need your help. Do you recognize these names?”

He handed Gopal one of the letters signed by Prakash. The old man adjusted his spectacles and squinted at the faded script. His expression shifted from curiosity to surprise.

“Prakash and Meera…” he murmured, trailing off.

The other elders leaned in, their interest piqued. One of them, a retired schoolteacher named Hariram, spoke up. “Prakash and Meera? That takes me back nearly sixty years. They were the talk of the village in those days.”

“What do you remember about them?” Anjali asked, her notebook ready to capture every detail.

“Prakash was a schoolteacher, much like me,” Hariram began. “But he had a fire in him—a passion for change. This was during the 1940s, when the independence movement was at its peak. Prakash was deeply involved, organizing rallies and educating the villagers about their rights.”

“And Meera?” Arun prompted.

“Ah, Meera,” Gopal Kaka said with a wistful smile. “She was the daughter of a wealthy zamindar. Beautiful, sharp-witted, and fiercely independent. She was unlike any other girl in the village. When she and Prakash fell in love, it caused quite a stir.”

“Why?” Anjali asked.

Hariram sighed. “For one, their families were poles apart. Prakash came from a modest background, while Meera’s family was influential and deeply rooted in tradition. Her father was vehemently opposed to the match.”

“They used to meet secretly under the banyan tree,” Gopal Kaka added. “Everyone in the village knew about it, but no one dared to say anything to Meera’s father.”

“What happened to them?” Arun asked, his voice tinged with urgency.

The elders exchanged glances, their expressions somber. “No one knows for sure,” Hariram said. “One day, they just disappeared. Some say they ran away together. Others believe something more sinister happened. The zamindar was a ruthless man. If he found out…”

His voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Arun’s heart sank. The letters and photographs had given him a glimpse of a love so pure, so resilient. The idea that it might have ended in tragedy was unbearable.

“Do you think they’re still alive?” Anjali asked, breaking the silence.

“Unlikely,” Gopal Kaka said. “But their story lives on in whispers. The banyan tree… it feels like a guardian of their memory. As if it’s holding on to their love, refusing to let it fade.”

The conversation left Arun and Anjali with more questions than answers. They decided to visit the village archives next, hoping to find records that might shed light on Prakash and Meera’s fate.

The archives were housed in an old building near the village temple. The caretaker, a wiry man named Rajesh, greeted them with a skeptical look. “You’re looking for records from sixty years ago?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Anjali said. “Anything related to Prakash or Meera.”

Rajesh sighed but led them to a dusty corner filled with bound volumes and loose papers. “Good luck,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

Hours passed as they sifted through the records, the room filled with the sound of rustling paper. Finally, Arun stumbled upon a document that caught his attention—a list of participants in a protest organized in 1947.

“Prakash’s name is here,” he said, showing it to Anjali.

“And look,” Anjali said, pointing to another name on the list. “Meera.”

The discovery sent a jolt of excitement through them. It confirmed that Meera had been more than just a bystander in Prakash’s life; she had been his partner in both love and revolution.

But their triumph was short-lived. As they continued their search, they found no further mention of the couple. It was as though they had vanished into thin air.

As they left the archives, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the village. Arun looked toward the banyan tree, its silhouette stark against the fiery sky.

“They trusted this tree with their love,” he said quietly. “If it could talk, it would tell us everything.”

Anjali placed a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe it already is, Arun. We just have to listen.”

That night, Arun sat beneath the banyan tree, his thoughts racing. The elders’ stories, the archived records, the letters—they were all pieces of a puzzle he was determined to solve. He ran his fingers over the tree’s gnarled roots, as if seeking answers in their twists and turns.

The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying with it a faint, haunting melody. Arun closed his eyes, letting the sound envelop him. For a brief moment, he felt as though he wasn’t alone, as though Prakash and Meera were there with him, their love as enduring as the tree that had borne witness to it.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

GUWAHATI,ASSAM ,INDIA

08/01/2025

Part II: The Letters of the Past

( c) All right reserved by the author

Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5

Continued from part -I

The next morning, Arun sat by his window, the tin box on the table before him. The soft morning light spilled over the faded letters and photographs he had uncovered the previous night. Each item seemed to hum with the weight of untold stories. He sipped his tea, a mixture of curiosity and hesitation brewing within him.

Finally, he picked up the first letter, unfolding the fragile paper with care. The ink had faded but was still legible, each word a portal to a time long gone.

“Dearest Meera,

Today, as I stood under our banyan tree, I thought of the promises we made. This tree, with its roots so deep, reminds me of us—grounded, yet yearning to reach the skies. I hope you are well. I hope you still believe in us.”

The letter was signed simply: Prakash.

Arun leaned back in his chair, the letter trembling slightly in his hand. He reached for another and began reading:

“Meera,

The world is changing faster than I can comprehend. They’ve asked me to lead a group to organize protests in the neighboring district. But my heart hesitates, torn between duty and the life I want to build with you. Sometimes, I wish we could leave all this behind and start anew somewhere far away. Underneath our banyan tree, I feel safe. I feel yours.”

The letters painted a vivid picture of a man caught between love and revolution. Arun felt an ache in his chest, as though he’d stumbled upon a reflection of his own struggles.

He spread the photographs out on the table, studying each one carefully. In one, a young woman sat on a low branch of the banyan tree, her face tilted toward the sunlight. Her saree billowed in the wind, and her laughter seemed almost audible. Beside her stood a man, his hand resting protectively on the branch, his eyes focused on her. Arun felt as though he’d intruded on a private moment, yet he couldn’t look away.

“Who were you, Prakash and Meera?” he murmured. “And why were your stories buried here?”

That afternoon, he decided to share his discovery with Anjali. She was the only person in the village who could match his inquisitiveness. Anjali had been his closest friend growing up, and though life had taken them on different paths, their bond had remained intact.

When Arun arrived at her home, Anjali was sitting on her porch, typing furiously on her laptop. She looked up and grinned. “Arun! To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

“I need your help,” Arun said, holding up the tin box.

Anjali’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “What’s this?”

“Something I found near the banyan tree,” Arun replied, setting the box down on the table. “Letters. Photos. A story, I think.”

Anjali untied the ribbon and began leafing through the letters. Her expression shifted from intrigue to awe as she read. “This is incredible, Arun,” she said softly. “These letters are like a window into another era.”

“They’re haunting me,” Arun admitted. “I feel like I have to know who they were.”

Anjali leaned back, tapping a finger against her chin. “You know, this could be bigger than just a personal curiosity. Imagine writing about this—turning it into a feature story. It could even help save the banyan tree if we can tie it to the village’s heritage.”

Arun hesitated. “But we don’t know the whole story. What if we’re missing something crucial?”

Anjali smiled. “That’s the beauty of stories like this, Arun. The gaps are where the magic happens. We don’t just tell what we know; we imagine what could have been.”

They decided to start by gathering information. Arun suggested speaking to the village elders, who might remember something about Prakash and Meera. Meanwhile, Anjali promised to research historical records to see if the couple’s names appeared anywhere.

Before leaving, Anjali handed Arun a letter. “This one’s my favorite,” she said. “It’s heartbreakingly beautiful.”

That evening, Arun sat under the banyan tree, reading the letter Anjali had chosen.

“My dearest Meera,

As I sit beneath our banyan tree, I can’t help but wonder if the roots beneath me feel the same pull as I do. A yearning to stay grounded, yet an ache to reach farther than ever before. I don’t know when I’ll see you again, but I promise this tree will always be my witness. And if you ever doubt me, come here. Close your eyes. You’ll feel my presence in its shadow.”

Tears pricked Arun’s eyes. He folded the letter and placed it back in the box, his resolve strengthening. He would uncover their story—not just for himself, but for the banyan tree that seemed to carry their legacy in its roots.( To be continued)

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

GUWAHATI,ASSAM ,INDIA

06/01/2025

( c) All right reserved with the author.

Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5

MY new journey with Microfiction. Hope my readers will enjoy it .

1. The Great Queue

“Everyone stood in line for the grand sale. The man in the front asked, ‘What’s on discount?’
The cashier grinned, ‘Patience’

2. Work-from-Home Reality

“Her boss scheduled a 7 a.m. video call. She wore a blazer, pajama shorts, and muted her kids’ squabbles.
Great presentation he said, while his cat walked across the screen.”

3. The VIP Culture

“The VIP car honked furiously through the traffic jam it caused.
A vendor muttered, ‘Their urgency is contagious. Too bad their solutions aren’t.’”

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

GUWAHATI , ASSAM , INDIA

05/01/2025

Part1: The Ancient Guardian

( c) All right reserved by the author

Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5

The village of Barakpur was a place where time moved slower, where the echoes of the past lingered in every corner. At its heart stood the banyan tree—a majestic, ancient giant that had witnessed the passing of generations. Its roots sprawled across the square like veins, breaking through the cobblestones and carving their own path. The canopy was so wide it cast a shadow over the bustling marketplace, shielding vendors and buyers from the sun’s relentless glare.

Locals called it Kalpataru, the wish-fulfilling tree, a name passed down through folklore. Children grew up believing that tying a red thread to its branches would make their dreams come true. For the elders, it was a symbol of resilience and permanence, a reminder of a time when life was simpler.

When Arun stepped off the rickety bus that had brought him back to Barakpur, the first thing he noticed was the banyan tree. He stood still, his suitcase dangling loosely from his hand. A gust of wind rustled the leaves, and Arun felt as though the tree were greeting him, a silent acknowledgment of his return.

He hadn’t been back in over a decade. The city had swallowed him whole, its cacophony drowning the whispers of his childhood. But life in the city had become unbearable—a dead-end job, a failed relationship, and a gnawing emptiness that no amount of urban convenience could fill. Arun had come back to find himself, or at least to figure out what he’d lost along the way.

“Arun, is that you?”

A voice broke his reverie. Turning, he saw Gopal, his childhood neighbor, now an elderly man with a walking stick. His face was wrinkled, but his eyes still sparkled with the mischief of youth.

“Yes, Gopal Kaka. I’m back,” Arun said, offering a hesitant smile.

“Back for good?” Gopal asked, his tone tinged with curiosity.

“For now,” Arun replied. “The city… it’s not for me anymore.”

Gopal nodded knowingly. “The city changes people. But Barakpur has a way of reminding you who you are.”

The two men walked together toward the banyan tree. Arun noticed changes in the village—new buildings, tarred roads, and a faint buzz of modernization. But the banyan tree stood as it always had, its roots and branches unfazed by time.

Beneath the tree’s shade, life thrived. Vendors sold vegetables, spices, and trinkets. Children chased each other around the roots, their laughter blending with the chatter of shoppers. Arun’s heart ached with nostalgia. He remembered sitting under this tree as a boy, reading books or listening to the elders spin tales of freedom fighters and lost lovers.

But something was different now. The tree, once the centerpiece of the village’s soul, was surrounded by political banners and posters. Slogans of various parties were painted crudely on its trunk, and the air carried whispers of its impending doom. Arun overheard a vendor complaining about a municipality plan to cut down the tree to widen the road.

“The tree’s roots are damaging the square,” said one man.

“And the traffic here is terrible,” another chimed in. “We need that road.”

Arun felt a pang of unease. Cutting down the banyan tree? It seemed unthinkable. Yet, in a world driven by progress, even the most sacred symbols weren’t safe.

That evening, Arun sat on a wooden bench near the tree, watching the sunset. The orange hues painted the sky, and the tree’s shadow stretched long across the square. For a moment, he felt a strange connection, as though the tree were alive, breathing, and trying to speak to him.

“Welcome back,” it seemed to whisper.

Just as Arun was lost in thought, a stray dog trotted up to him, wagging its tail. Arun chuckled and reached down to pet it. “You’re the first one to officially welcome me home,” he said.

As the stars began to dot the night sky, Arun decided to walk around the tree one last time before heading home. That’s when he noticed something unusual—a small patch of disturbed earth near one of the roots. Intrigued, he knelt down and began digging with his hands.

Buried beneath the soil was an old tin box, rusted and battered by time. Arun’s heart raced as he pried it open. Inside were faded letters tied with a red ribbon, along with a stack of sepia-toned photographs.

The letters were addressed to someone named Meera, signed by a man named Prakash. Arun skimmed through the first few lines, his curiosity piqued by the poetic language and heartfelt confessions. The photographs showed a young couple standing near the banyan tree, their smiles radiant and full of promise.

Who were Prakash and Meera? And why had their memories been buried here, hidden from the world?

Arun slipped the letters and photographs back into the box, his mind swirling with questions. The banyan tree, it seemed, held secrets far deeper than its roots. And for the first time in years, Arun felt a spark of purpose.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

GUWAHATI,ASSAM ,INDIA

04/01/2025

( c) All right reserved by the author 

Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5

It was a sweltering afternoon in June, and the train station was buzzing with the usual cacophony of travelers, announcements, and the clatter of luggage wheels. I was on my way to Guwahati from Delhi, a journey I had made many times before, but this time, I would carry back an experience I could never forget.

The train was packed to the brim, as it often is in India, and I had secured a lower berth in the sleeper class—a rare luxury. As the train heaved out of the station, I settled into my corner with a book, hoping for an uneventful journey.

But life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it.

About an hour into the journey, at a small, dusty station, a man boarded the train and occupied the berth opposite mine. He appeared to be in his late forties, with a weathered face that hinted at a life of toil. His clothes were simple, his bag tattered, but there was an air of dignity about him that caught my attention.

As the train rocked gently along the tracks, we struck up a conversation. He introduced himself as Ramesh, a farmer from a remote village in Bihar. He was traveling to Delhi to meet his son, who had recently secured a job there. His pride in his son was palpable, and he spoke with a mixture of joy and apprehension about the changes in their lives.

I listened intently, sharing snippets of my life in return. He seemed genuinely interested, nodding and smiling at the right moments. There was something comforting about his presence—an authenticity that is rare in a world often driven by superficial connections.

As the evening wore on, Ramesh pulled out a small cloth bundle from his bag. Inside were homemade rotis and a simple potato curry. He offered me a share, insisting with a warmth that left no room for refusal. I hesitated at first, but his generosity was contagious, and I soon found myself enjoying the meal. It tasted of care and simplicity, a stark contrast to the rushed, pre-packaged food I had brought along.

In return, I shared some biscuits and chocolates I had packed for the journey. His childlike delight at the chocolates made me smile, and for a moment, we were just two humans sharing a meal, our differences fading into insignificance.

As night fell, the conversation took a more serious turn. Ramesh spoke of the struggles of farming—how unpredictable weather, mounting debts, and the lure of city life were driving people away from the land. He spoke with a quiet resignation, but there was also a glimmer of hope in his words, a belief that things could change.

His story resonated with me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I had always considered myself empathetic, but hearing his struggles firsthand gave me a new perspective. It made me realize how disconnected I had become from the realities of rural life, despite having grown up in a small town myself.

As the train chugged through the night, Ramesh fell asleep, his face relaxed in the dim light. I sat by the window, staring at the dark expanse outside, lost in thought. Meeting him had stirred something within me—a sense of gratitude, a desire to reconnect with the simpler things in life, and a newfound respect for the resilience of people like him.

The next morning, as the train neared Delhi, Ramesh prepared to disembark. He shook my hand firmly, thanking me for the conversation and the shared meal. “You’ve made this journey memorable,” he said with a smile.

I watched him walk away, blending into the crowd at the station. The train pulled out, and I found myself staring at the empty berth opposite mine, feeling an odd mix of sadness and contentment.

Life moved on, as it always does, but the memory of that journey stayed with me. It reminded me of the power of human connection, the beauty of shared stories, and the importance of seeing beyond the surface.

Even now, years later, I find myself thinking of Ramesh whenever I travel by train. His story, his warmth, and his quiet dignity continue to inspire me, a reminder that sometimes, the most profound lessons come from the most unexpected encounters.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

Guwahati ,Assam , India

03/01/2025

(C) All right reserved by the author

Instagram @rajatchandrasarmah5

A quiet night turns into dawn’s embrace,
The clock strikes twelve, a fleeting space.
A year departs, its echoes fade,
A new path calls, yet unwade.

Stars shimmer with promises untold,
Dreams awaken from slumber’s hold.
Hope whispers softly through the breeze,
“Begin again, with hearts at ease.”

The world wears a cloak of fleeting snow,
Covering wounds, letting kindness grow.
Every crack in time, a lesson’s trace,
Each failure—a chance to find your grace.

Fireworks bloom, the sky ignites,
Banishing shadows of the nights.
Laughter rises, and spirits mend,
A chorus of joy, where fears suspend.

Yet beneath the cheer lies a silent plea,
For love, for peace, for unity.
The earth spins on, both frail and strong,
Carrying stories, righting wrongs.

So step forward, with courage anew,
Let kindness be the thread you sew.
For this year may be fleeting, like all before,
But its whispers can open another door.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

Guwahati , Assam , India

02/01/2025

“Be Limitless” by Blue cloud publishers results were out today . Proud to see my name amongst the winners.

Resolutions, Ruckus, and Reality

© All rights reserved by the author

Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

In a small Indian town nestled along the banks of the Ganga, the anticipation of a new year was as thick as the winter fog. Loudspeakers blared the latest Bollywood remixes, and street vendors hawked cheap glittery “2024” hats and plastic horns. Every corner shop displayed banners proclaiming “New Year, New Beginnings!” as though the digits themselves held the promise of salvation. Amidst this controlled chaos was Ramesh, the town’s chaiwala and unchallenged philosopher-in-residence, preparing for what he called his “Annual New Year Symposium.”

The Build-Up

Ramesh’s chai stall was no ordinary tea joint. It was the epicenter of heated debates, unsolicited advice, and the occasional existential crisis. On December 30th, the regulars gathered as usual, sipping chai and discussing their grand New Year plans.

“Arre, this year I’m quitting cigarettes for good,” Banwari announced, taking a deep drag from his cigarette as he spoke.

Kamla, the neighborhood gossip, wasn’t far behind. “I’ve decided to join yoga classes,” she declared, conveniently forgetting her distaste for early mornings.

Even Golu, a pudgy 12-year-old with a samosa in each hand, added his two bits. “I’ll stop eating junk food… after New Year’s Eve, of course.”

Ramesh, pouring chai with the precision of a scientist, smirked. “So, everyone’s making promises, eh? Let me guess—by February, Banwari will still be puffing away, Kamla will be snoozing through her yoga classes, and Golu will still be found at the chaat stall.”

The group burst into laughter, though Banwari’s chuckle had a nervous edge.

“Listen,” Ramesh continued, his tone playful yet sharp, “resolutions are like Bollywood sequels—big hype, no substance. Everyone loves the idea of change, but few actually work on it. And when they fail, they blame the calendar, not themselves.”

A The Countdown

December 31st arrived, and the town square transformed into a carnival. Kite sellers, fairy lights, and an open stage added to the festive air. The loudspeakers switched to remixed bhajans after a stern warning from the local pandit, who felt Bollywood was tarnishing the sanctity of the occasion.

On the stage, Sunil, the local poet and part-time teacher, performed his yearly ode to New Year resolutions:

“This year I swear, I’ll be more wise,

But soon, like kites, my promises fly!”

The audience clapped and laughed, some already discreetly sipping desi daaru from pocket flasks. Meanwhile, Ramesh stood at his chai stall, watching the spectacle unfold.

A group of college students, emboldened by caffeine and curiosity, approached him. “Ramesh bhaiya, why do you always mock New Year resolutions? Shouldn’t we at least try to improve ourselves?”

Ramesh set down his kettle, theatrically wiped his hands, and said, “Beta, resolutions aren’t bad. But tell me, why wait for January 1st to quit smoking or start yoga? Improvement doesn’t need a calendar; it needs commitment. If you need fireworks and a countdown to inspire change, you’re not serious about it.”

The students nodded thoughtfully, though one muttered under his breath, “He sounds like my father.”

 The Absurdities

As midnight approached, the town erupted in excitement. Firecrackers lit up the sky, and phones buzzed with WhatsApp forwards filled with motivational quotes and recycled jokes. Golu, armed with a plastic horn, ran around scaring stray dogs, much to their dismay.

Kamla was caught red-handed at the dessert counter, stuffing her mouth with gulab jamuns. “It’s the last day of the year!” she protested when confronted. “Yoga can wait till tomorrow!”

Banwari, who had sworn off cigarettes earlier in the day, was seen lighting one at exactly 12:01 AM. “This is just symbolic,” he rationalized.

Even Sunil, the poet, was overheard composing a new verse between bites of aloo chaat:

“This year I’ll diet, I truly insist,

But first, let me enjoy one last twist!”

Ramesh, observing these antics from his stall, couldn’t help but chuckle. “Humans are hilarious,” he muttered to himself. “We crave change, but cling to our habits like a dog to its bone.”

 The Aftermath

By mid-January, the festive fervor had faded, and life in the town returned to its usual rhythm. Kamla’s yoga mat had become a makeshift rug for her cat. Banwari was back to his pack-a-day habit, and Golu was spotted devouring pani puris with unabashed glee.

At the chai stall, the regulars sheepishly admitted their failures. “You were right, Ramesh bhaiya,” Kamla sighed. “New Year promises are useless.”

Ramesh shook his head. “Not useless, Kamla. Just misunderstood. You all make grand, sweeping resolutions. Start small, my friends. Real change is like good chai—it takes time to brew. Focus on one habit at a time, and celebrate small wins.”

 The Wisdom

That evening, Ramesh shared his closing thoughts on the New Year. “Look, the problem isn’t making resolutions; it’s turning them into a circus. Improvement doesn’t need fireworks or Instagram posts. It needs patience, discipline, and a willingness to forgive yourself when you slip.”

He raised a cup of chai and declared, “Here’s to doing better, one small step at a time. Drink good chai, laugh often, and never stop trying—even if it’s March, April, or November.”

The crowd at the stall cheered, their spirits lifted not by resolutions, but by the wisdom of a chaiwala who had mastered the art of living.

As the sun set over the Ganga, the town welcomed the New Year not with unrealistic promises, but with humility, laughter, and, of course, a steaming cup of chai.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah

Guwahati, Assam , India 

31/12/2024

WISH ALL MY READER A VERY VERY HAPPY , PRODUCTIVE AND ENJOYABLE NEW YEAR 2025