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Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

The sound of a grand piano echoed through the auditorium, each note crisp and clear, filling the room with a sense of awe. Every time Aarohi’s fingers danced across the keys, it was as if the music came alive. People often said that when she played, it wasn’t just music; it was a conversation, a dialogue between the notes and the soul. The young prodigy had been playing since the age of six, and by twenty, she had already become a sensation in the world of classical music.

But the world Aarohi knew, the world built on the delicate harmonies and rhythms of her talent, came crashing down on an ordinary afternoon.

She had been walking home from a rehearsal, her mind still replaying the chords of Beethoven’s Sonata in her head, when the accident happened. A speeding car, a screech of tires, and the sound of shattering glass. The next few moments were a blur of pain and confusion. When Aarohi woke up in the hospital, the world had changed.

At first, she couldn’t understand why the voices around her sounded distant, like they were trapped behind a wall. The doctors’ mouths moved, but the sounds didn’t reach her the way they used to. It was only when her parents stood by her bed, tears streaming down their faces, that she realised the truth. She had lost her hearing.

The days that followed were a nightmare. Aarohi refused to believe it. How could someone whose entire life had been defined by sound lose the very thing that made them who they were? She lashed out, pushing away everyone who tried to help her. The doctors suggested hearing aids, surgery, anything that might restore some semblance of sound, but nothing seemed to work. Every time she touched the piano, her fingers would freeze, paralyzed by the silence that now surrounded her.

The loss wasn’t just physical; it was spiritual. Music had been her identity, her solace, and her escape. Without it, she felt like a shadow of herself, empty and incomplete. The world became a prison of silence, and Aarohi locked herself away in her small apartment, refusing to face the reality that had been forced upon her.

Her parents were devastated, watching their once-brilliant daughter withdraw into a shell. They tried everything to lift her spirits—visiting doctors, therapists, and even musicians who had faced similar struggles. But Aarohi’s pain ran deeper than they could understand. Every morning she would sit at the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys, but she couldn’t bring herself to play a single note. The silence mocked her, a constant reminder of everything she had lost.

( TO BE CONTINUED)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

Guwahati , Assam , India 

04/11/2024

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Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

As dusk began to settle over the village, Aarav stepped outside, the cool evening air bringing a sense of peace. He lit the lantern, just as he had done countless times before when he was a child. The flame flickered to life, casting a soft, golden glow that danced in the twilight.

For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. The world was quiet, the stars just beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, and the little lantern was once again the center of his world. He closed his eyes and let the memories wash over him—he could hear Dadi’s voice, soft and melodic, as if she were right there beside him.

“There was once a little lantern,” she would begin, “that hung outside a small cottage on the edge of a village. It wasn’t the biggest or brightest lantern, but it had a special gift. You see, this little lantern had the power to hold stories—stories of the people who lived in the village, stories of love, loss, and adventure. And every night, as the villagers slept, the lantern would glow softly, whispering these stories into the wind.”

Aarav smiled, remembering how captivated he had been by the idea of a magical lantern that could hold stories. He had believed, as only a child could, that the little lantern outside Dadi’s cottage was that very lantern, that it held within it all the tales she had ever told him.

But now, as an adult, he wondered if there was a different kind of magic at play—the magic of memory, of connection, of love passed down through generations.

The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight touched the village, Aarav found himself unable to leave. He had come with the intention of saying goodbye, of closing this chapter of his life. But something held him back.

He spent the day walking through the village, greeting old neighbors and friends who were surprised but delighted to see him. Many of them shared their own memories of Dadi—the time she had nursed a sick child back to health, the stories she had told at village gatherings, the warmth she brought to everyone she met.

It became clear to Aarav that Dadi had not just been his storyteller; she had been the storyteller of the entire village. Her stories had woven the fabric of this community, binding people together with shared experiences, lessons, and laughter.

As evening fell once again, Aarav returned to the cottage, his mind swirling with thoughts of the past. The lantern, still glowing faintly from the night before, seemed to call to him, its light steady and reassuring.

He sat on the porch, staring at the flame. And then, without fully understanding why, he began to speak.

“There was once a little boy,” he said softly, “who lived in a small village with his grandmother. She was the wisest woman he had ever known, and she told him stories that filled his heart with wonder. Every night, under the light of a little lantern, she would spin tales of courage, kindness, and magic. And as the boy grew older, he realized that these stories were not just entertainment—they were lessons, passed down from generation to generation, teaching him how to live, how to love, and how to remember.”

The words flowed easily, as if they had been waiting for this moment. And as he spoke, Aarav felt a sense of peace settle over him. He wasn’t just telling a story; he was honoring the legacy of his grandmother, keeping her memory alive in the same way she had kept the stories of their ancestors alive.( TO BE CONTINUED)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah

Guwahati , Assam , India 

01/11/2024

SLIDE-21

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#carolling pen #poem #literature

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Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

The little lantern hung from a hook outside an old cottage, its glass stained with years of soot, and its metal frame weathered from seasons of rain, sun, and snow. Though small and worn, it held a unique charm—a memory of simpler times when it illuminated the world around it, casting warm, flickering light on the cobblestone path that led to the door.

In the village, people often passed by the cottage without giving the lantern much thought. To most, it was just another relic, a fixture that had outlived its purpose. But to Aarav, the lantern was far more than a forgotten object; it was a symbol of his childhood, of stories told under its glow and the comfort it brought during long, lonely nights.

Aarav’s grandmother, Dadi, had lived in that cottage for as long as he could remember. She was the heart of the village—everyone knew her, and they would come to her for advice, herbal remedies, and stories of the past. Her stories were like magic, each one told with such passion that they seemed to come alive under the soft flicker of the lantern’s light.

Now, as an adult, Aarav stood at the edge of the overgrown garden, staring at the little lantern swaying gently in the breeze. The cottage had been empty for years, ever since Dadi passed away. Life had taken Aarav far from the village, to the bustling city where he had built a career, started a family, and made a new life for himself. But despite the distance, he often found his thoughts drifting back to this place, to the warmth and safety that Dadi’s stories had once provided.

He had returned to the village today, not for a reunion or a celebration, but because he had decided to sell the old cottage. It was time, he thought, to let go. Time to move on from the past. Yet as he stood there, the memories flooded back, and with them came a pang of guilt. How could he let go of something that had meant so much to him?

Aarav walked slowly towards the cottage door, his hand grazing the weathered wood as he pushed it open. The familiar creak of the hinges echoed in the silence, and the musty smell of the long-abandoned house greeted him. Everything inside was exactly as he remembered—Dadi’s old armchair by the fireplace, the embroidered cushions she had made by hand, the faded rug that had once been vibrant with color.

But it was the little lantern, hanging just outside the door, that drew his attention again. He could almost see Dadi sitting there on the porch, her knitting in her lap, the lantern glowing beside her as she told him stories of faraway lands, of brave kings and clever queens, of talking animals and magical forests.

“Dadi, tell me more,” he would say, his young eyes wide with wonder.

“Ah, beta,” she would reply with a twinkle in her eye, “there are so many stories, but we must let them out one by one, like fireflies. Otherwise, the magic will escape.”

Now, standing in the empty house, Aarav couldn’t help but feel that the magic had already slipped away, lost with Dadi’s passing. Yet the lantern remained, its small flame long extinguished, but its spirit somehow still alive.( TO BE CONTINUED)

Rajat chandra Sarmah

Guwahati , Assam , India 

30/10/2024

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