Good morning friends and my readers .
Good Morning my friends and readers.
GOOD MORNING FRIENDS AND MY READERS
@
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Raghav had an unspoken understanding that his time was nearing its end. His breath was slower, his sight dimmer. But the urgency in his heart grew as he realized that too many stories remained untold. He often wondered who would take his place, who would see the beauty in the lives of the unnoticed.
One day, a young boy named Anil appeared at his doorstep. Anil, unlike the other children in the village, was curious about the old man’s odd occupation. He would sit with Raghav, listening as the old man recited tales of those who had lived simple but profound lives.
“Why do you write about them?” Anil asked one evening. The boy’s youthful innocence mingled with the curiosity that only the young possess.
“Because they matter,” Raghav replied with a smile. “The world often forgets that it’s the small lives, the unnoticed gestures, that build the foundation for everything grand.”
Anil tilted his head, pondering the weight of the old man’s words. “But who will remember you?”
The question hung in the air, the simplicity of it cutting through the quiet evening. Raghav looked at the boy with soft eyes, his smile tinged with a sadness he had long grown accustomed to.
“Perhaps no one will,” he said. “But that doesn’t matter. I have spent my life weaving together the stories of others. They will live on in these pages. That is enough for me.”
The weeks passed, and Raghav grew weaker. His once steady hands began to shake, and soon the pen he had so dearly held slipped from his grasp. Anil continued to visit him, now sitting beside the old man’s bed, reading aloud the stories Raghav had written. And as the boy read, he began to see the village through Raghav’s eyes—not as a forgotten corner of the world, but as a place brimming with meaning, a mosaic of small, interconnected lives.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Raghav took his final breath. The village mourned him, but it wasn’t a grand affair. Raghav had lived quietly, and he was buried quietly. His home, filled with the stories he had painstakingly written, remained untouched for days.
Anil, now feeling the weight of the legacy left behind, returned to the house. He walked through the dusty rooms, his fingers grazing the spines of countless notebooks. Each one held a life, a moment, a fragment of history that would have been forgotten if not for Raghav.
And then, he picked up a pen.
Anil didn’t know why, but it felt right. He opened one of the notebooks and began to write. He didn’t have Raghav’s experience or his years of observation, but he had something just as valuable: a heart open to the stories of others. He began with Raghav’s story, the old man who had dedicated his life to preserving the unnoticed.
As Anil wrote, he realized that he wasn’t just telling stories—he was continuing a legacy. A legacy of seeing the beauty in the ordinary, of recognizing the quiet strength in lives that never made the headlines. And in that moment, he understood what Raghav had always known: that true glory doesn’t come from grand achievements or fame. It comes from living a life of meaning, no matter how small or unnoticed it may seem.
RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI , ASSAM , INDIA
17/03/2025
@ All right reserved by the author
Date 16/03/2025
A quiet village nestled at the edge of a forgotten forest. Its name wasn’t important, and to the world beyond its boundaries, the people who lived there were no more than specks in the grand design of time. But to the villagers, each life was a thread woven into the intricate fabric of their small universe. The village had stood for centuries, its rhythm dictated by the seasons, its stories passed from generation to generation.
In that village lived an old man, Raghav. He was neither a wealthy merchant nor a man of great wisdom, but he held a peculiar role: the keeper of stories. Not grand tales of heroes or epic battles—those were left to history books—but the stories of the forgotten. Raghav believed that every life, no matter how ordinary, held a value that deserved to be remembered. His humble house was filled with dusty notebooks, each crammed with narratives he had gathered over decades.
He would often sit in front of his home, scribbling with worn-out pens, capturing moments that others might forget. His frail fingers traced the lines of his most recent story—a woman named Meera, who had been a midwife in the village for over 40 years. She wasn’t famous, nor had she changed the world in any grand way. But she had brought over a hundred children into the world, calming anxious mothers and cradling newborns with hands that knew both the weight of life and the fragility of death.
As Raghav wrote, Meera’s life unraveled before him: the struggles she had endured as a young widow, her quiet endurance through personal loss, and her steadfast determination to serve her village. Her story wasn’t written in large gestures but in the small, consistent acts of kindness that had left their mark on everyone around her.( To be Continued)
Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati , Assam , India
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