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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

SLIDE -20

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SLIDE -19

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I started writing a series on Leadership which is purely depended on my own experience of 36 years doing different projects under different conditions and circumstances . Some of my comments may not be correct 100 percent and as per management text books.Managing a Project and giving leadership to a team are two different matters and a tough subject .Under different conditions the leader has to lead the team in different ways and cannot be generalized .
Welcome any suggestion from my friend over the globe and professionals to correct me , where my thoughts and comments can be improved upon .

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Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

Her innocent question hung in the air, and for a moment, the adults exchanged glances, unsure how to respond. It was Ravi who spoke next, his voice thick with emotion.

“I miss her too, Rhea,” he said, his eyes fixed on the chair. “But Nani wouldn’t want us to be sad. She’d want us to be happy, to laugh, and to remember all the good times we shared with her.”

His words seemed to lift the weight that had settled over the table. Slowly, the conversation began to flow again, stories and memories bubbling to the surface as each family member shared their favourite moments with Nani.

Meena spoke of the nights they had spent talking late into the evening, her mother’s wisdom guiding her through the challenges of raising her own children. Ravi recounted the summers he had spent at Nani’s house as a boy, exploring the garden while she watched over him, her laughter filling the air. Even the younger grandchildren, who had only known Nani in her later years, had stories to tell—of the sweets she would sneak them when their parents weren’t looking, of the way she would hum old songs as she knitted in her favorite chair.

“She used to sing that old song, remember?” Ravi asked, a smile tugging at his lips. “That one about the moon and the stars? She said it was a lullaby her mother sang to her when she was little.”

Everyone nodded, the melody faintly playing in their memories. Even those who hadn’t heard the song firsthand could feel its presence, like a thread woven through generations, connecting them all.

As the evening wore on, the sadness that had initially filled the room began to ebb, replaced by a warmth that seemed to radiate from the stories they shared. The empty chair, once a stark reminder of loss, now felt less like a void and more like a tribute, a symbol of the love that had connected them all.

Towards the end of the evening, after the last dish had been cleared and the laughter had quieted to a soft murmur, Meena found herself standing by the empty chair once more. She ran her fingers along its edges, feeling the grooves in the wood, worn smooth by years of use. Her heart ached, but it also felt full—full of the love that Nani had left behind, the love that would continue to bind their family together, even in her absence.

As she gazed at the chair, Meena remembered one of the last things her mother had said to her: “Don’t be sad when I’m gone, beta. Just remember that love doesn’t disappear. It changes, like the seasons, but it’s always there.”

By the end of the night, as the family cleared the table and said their goodbyes, Meena stood in the dining room, the soft light casting long shadows. She glanced at the chair one last time, her heart swelling with a mixture of grief and gratitude. Nani’s presence was still there, not in the physical sense, but in the laughter, the stories, the love that had filled the room.

Meena turned off the light in the dining room and walked away, leaving the chair where it had always been, waiting, as if Nani herself might return to sit in it once more.

But in a way, she thought, she already had.

Rajat chandra Sarmah

Guwahati , Assam , India 

25/10/2024

(c) All right reserved by author

For the last few weeks , I am writing on the Subject of successful Leadership and trying to convey one of the character of a successful leader in my slide every time .

I am getting a lot of mail and comments asking different questions by my esteem readers . As the nature of questions are the same, I clarify the following for information of my readers.

I started writing a series on Leadership which is  purely depended on my own experience and learning by various success and failures in my 36 years career doing different projects under different conditions and circumstances and learning every time.These comments and observations are purely of my own and Some of my comments may not be true as per management text books.Managing a Project and giving leadership to a team are two different subjects altogether may be sometime with a thin line of difference and an interesting subject .Under different conditions the leader has to lead the team in different ways and cannot be generalized .

I welcome any suggestions from my friends over the globe and professionals to correct me , whereby my thoughts and comments can be improved upon .

I am still in the learning process.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah

Guwahati, Assam , India

25/10/2024