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Rajat Chandra Sarmah

Instagram : rajatchandrasarmah5

In the quaint streets of Dibrugarh, young lovers Esa and Mrinal were known for their nightly serenades under the moonlit sky. Mrinal’s guitar would sing Esa’s favourite melodies, each note a promise of undying love. Their romance was a symphony of stolen kisses and shared dreams, a melody that everyone in the village adored. However, Mrinal’s health began to fade, an illness stealing his strength but not his spirit. As the days grew shorter, Mrinal’s serenades became softer, his voice frailer. Knowing his time was limited, he penned a final song for Esa, a farewell and a testament to their love. One cold evening, unable to play, Mrinal handed the sheet of music to Esa, his eyes filled with sorrow and unspoken words. With tears streaming, Esa took up the guitar, her fingers trembling, and began to play his song. Her voice carried Mrinal’s love through the streets of Dibrugarh, a poignant echo of their past serenades. As the last note faded into the night, Mrinal closed his eyes with a peaceful smile, his heart full. Esa’s tears mixed with her bittersweet melody, knowing their love, though ending in this life, would echo forever in the hearts of those who heard their final serenade.

Rajat chandra sarmah

Guwahati , Assam , India

28/09/2024

(C)All rights reserved with the author.

Rajat chandra sarmah

Instagram @rajatchandrasarmah5

In the sleepy town of Sonapur, Nila and Hari were inseparable from childhood. They shared every dream, every secret, and every heartache. As they grew older, their friendship blossomed into a tender love that felt destined and eternal. Yet, when Hari received a scholarship to a distant university, he left with a heavy heart, promising to return. Years passed, and though they wrote to each other often, life’s currents pulled them in different directions. Nila, became a renowned artist, capturing the essence of her longing on canvas, while Hari pursued a career in medicine, healing others while aching for his solace. One day, as Nila unveiled her latest gallery collection, her heart skipped a beat. There, amidst the crowd, stood Hari. He had returned, looking just as he had in her dreams. They locked eyes, and the years melted away.“I never stopped loving you,” Hari whispered, his voice trembling. Nila’s eyes welled with tears, her heart bursting with joy and relief. In that moment, they realised that true love transcends time and distance. As they embraced, their past sorrows were replaced by the profound beauty of their long-awaited reunion.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

27/09/2024

Guwahati , Assam , India

  (c)rajatchandrasarmah , All rights reserved

Email: rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com

Instagram :rajatchandrasarmah5

( All the story and characters are a work of Fiction )

Continued from Part I

With Naina’s encouragement, Mira began the daunting task of sorting through the house. Each room held fragments of her childhood—a faded photograph, a forgotten toy, a letter from years ago. The attic, in particular, was a trove of memories. Amidst dusty boxes and old furniture, Mira uncovered more letters from her father, each one revealing his struggles and attempts at reconciliation.

One afternoon, as Mira sifted through a box of old books, she discovered a small wooden box intricately carved with patterns of leaves and flowers. Inside, she found a collection of letters addressed to her. These were not the same as the letter she had received; they were personal notes from her father, written during his years of absence. Each letter was a mixture of apologies, explanations, and expressions of longing, offering glimpses into his life and regrets.

The discovery was both heart-wrenching and enlightening. Mira felt a complex blend of empathy and sadness. Her father’s letters revealed a man grappling with his own demons, someone who had struggled with personal issues while yearning to reconnect with his family. It didn’t excuse his abandonment but provided a window into his tortured soul.

As Mira continued to sort through the house, she found unexpected solace in the process. The garden, once overgrown and neglected, began to show signs of life. She spent hours planting marigolds and trimming the hedges, finding a therapeutic rhythm in the work. The garden, a symbol of her mother’s love and care, started to reflect the vibrancy and hope Mira was beginning to feel.

One Saturday morning, while she was busy tending to the garden, an elderly woman appeared at the gate. Her presence was gentle and unassuming. She introduced herself as Mrs. Rao, a long-time neighbor who had known her parents well.

“I’ve seen you working hard on this garden,” Mrs. Rao said with a warm smile. “It’s looking wonderful.”

Mira, slightly taken aback but grateful, responded, “Thank you. It’s been a labor of love, trying to bring it back to life.”

Mrs. Rao nodded appreciatively. “Your mother always took such pride in this garden. She had a real talent for making things bloom. It’s nice to see it coming back.”

As they chatted, Mira learned more about her parents through Mrs. Rao’s stories. She discovered that her father, despite his flaws, had been a part of the community, attending gatherings and engaging with neighbors. These stories painted a fuller picture of the man she had once thought she knew only as a source of pain.

Gradually, Mira and Mrs. Rao became close. They spent afternoons together, working in the garden and sharing memories. Mira opened up about her father, the letters, and the pain she had carried for years. Mrs. Rao listened with empathy, offering comfort and perspective.

One evening, as they sat on the porch sipping tea, Mira received a call from the real estate agent. The house had been sold. It was a bittersweet moment for Mira, marking the end of an era and the beginning of a new chapter.

Mira packed up the last of her belongings, feeling a mix of relief and sadness. The house had been a place of reflection and healing, but she was ready to move forward. As she closed the door for the final time, she glanced back at the garden. The marigolds, blooming brightly, symbolized her own journey of renewal and hope.

In the weeks that followed, Mira found herself settling into her new life with a renewed sense of purpose. She began volunteering at a local community center, helping others with their struggles and finding fulfillment in giving back. The pain of the past was still there, but it no longer controlled her. She had learned to find beauty in the broken and to see the marigolds in her own life.

One afternoon, as Mira worked in the community garden, she thought about her father. She wondered if he had ever found peace or understood the impact of his actions. She hoped he had.

The journey of coming to terms with her father’s past had been long and difficult, but it had also been transformative. Mira had faced her pain, acknowledged her anger, and found a way to let go. She had discovered that healing was not about forgetting or forgiving but about moving forward with a deeper understanding of oneself.

As Mira continued her path, she felt ready to face whatever came next. The marigolds in the community garden were in full bloom, their vibrant colors a reflection of her own inner growth. Life was a journey full of unexpected turns and hidden surprises, and Mira was prepared to embrace whatever the future held.

( Concluded)

Rajat chandra sarmah

Guwahati , Assam , India

25/09/2024

Mira’s heart raced as she stared at the envelope that had arrived from an address she barely remembered. It was a relic from a past she had buried deep. The envelope, yellowed with age and sealed with a once-familiar emblem, seemed to pulse with the weight of old wounds. Her father’s handwriting, a script she hadn’t seen in years, was etched across the front.

The letter inside was both a message and a ghost from the past. Mira unfolded it with trembling fingers, her eyes skimming over the words that began with, “My dear Mira.” Her father, who had been absent from her life for more than a decade, was dead. His letter, filled with regret and longing, spoke of missed years, lost opportunities, and the family he had left behind.

As she read, Mira’s emotions swirled. Anger, sorrow, and confusion gripped her. For years, she had managed to push away thoughts of her father, and now his unexpected reappearance felt like a cruel twist of fate. His regrets and apologies, though heartfelt, could not erase the years of pain and abandonment she had endured.

Mira had always viewed the old family home as a symbol of neglect and loss. Now, it stood before her, a crumbling testament to her father’s absence. The house, once filled with laughter and life, had deteriorated into a shadow of its former self, overgrown with weeds and cloaked in dust. Her father’s death had left her not only with an estate to manage but also with the heavy burden of confronting her past.

Determined to sort through the remnants of her father’s life, Mira enlisted the help of her best friend, Naina. Naina had always been a steady presence in her life, and Mira knew she could rely on her for support during this difficult time. One evening, as they sat in the cluttered living room, Naina poured tea and watched Mira with a sympathetic gaze.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Mira said, handing Naina the letter. “It’s like reopening a wound I thought had healed.”

Naina read the letter, her expression softening. “It sounds like he was trying to make amends. Maybe this is a chance for you to find some closure, even if it’s painful.”

Mira sighed, feeling the weight of her unresolved emotions. “I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t fully understand. I’ve spent so long being angry. I’m not sure if I can just let that go.”

“Take it one step at a time,” Naina suggested gently. “You don’t have to rush. Maybe start by looking through the house. Sometimes, facing the past can help us move forward ( To be continued)

Rajat chandra sarmah

22/09/24

Guwahati , Assam, India

Email ID : rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com

Instagram : rajatchandrasarmah5

Anya’s breath felt shallow as she clutched the worn, ancient book to her chest. Her grandmother’s words—The truth is not a burden we bear lightly. But it is one we must carry to the end—echoed in her mind, haunting her with their weight.

She flipped through the pages again, her fingers tracing the cryptic symbols that filled the book. It was clear now—her grandmother had been protecting knowledge far beyond Anya’s understanding. This was no ordinary family heirloom. This was something ancient, something dangerous, a truth that could reshape the world—or destroy it.

But now the burden was hers. Her grandmother had paid the ultimate price to protect it, and now, standing in the ruins of the chapel, Anya had to decide if she was willing to do the same.

She felt a strange connection to her grandmother in that moment, as if she were standing right beside her. The years of mystery and silence between them melted away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of kinship. Anya could feel her grandmother’s presence, guiding her, urging her toward a choice.

But what choice?

The village had been destroyed, torn apart by fear and suspicion. The old man’s words had revealed a dark truth about how people, in their desperation, can turn on each other. Her grandmother had been their scapegoat, a woman who had sacrificed her life to protect something greater than herself.

And yet, the same fate awaited Anya. If she chose to carry this knowledge forward, to uncover the secrets within the book, she could be putting herself—and the world—in the same danger. But if she left it hidden, would her grandmother’s sacrifice have been for nothing?

The wind howled through the broken windows of the chapel, carrying with it the echoes of the past. Anya closed her eyes, letting the cool air brush against her face. She could feel the weight of the generations before her, of those who had kept this knowledge hidden, who had guarded it with their lives.

Her heart raced as the gravity of the decision settled over her. This wasn’t just about uncovering the truth—it was about understanding the responsibility that came with it.

In her mind, she heard the voices of the villagers, their fear and anger rising up from the past. She imagined the shadowy figures from the government, the men who had hunted her grandmother, hungry for power. And she heard her grandmother’s voice, calm and steady, reminding her that the truth was not something to be feared but something to be respected.

Anya opened her eyes, the world around her suddenly sharp and clear. She knew what she had to do.

She carefully placed the book back in the chest, closed the lid, and locked it with the same key that had opened it.

Her grandmother hadn’t been wrong to protect the knowledge, and now Anya understood why it had to remain hidden. Some truths weren’t meant to be wielded. Some knowledge was too dangerous in the hands of those who would use it for their gain. Her grandmother had seen what fear and power could do, and she had made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure that the knowledge wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.

But Anya’s journey wasn’t over.

She carried the chest with her as she left the chapel, the weight of her decision settling into her bones. She didn’t know what the future held, or whether the past would ever truly let her go, but she had made peace with the choice she had made. The truth would remain buried—protected, as it always had been.

As she walked back toward the village, the sky darkening with the promise of rain, Anya felt a strange sense of calm wash over her. Her grandmother’s story had become hers now, intertwined with the lives of those who had come before her.

But Anya wasn’t afraid anymore.

She had learned the hardest lesson of all—that sometimes, the greatest act of love isn’t revealing the truth, but choosing to protect it.

As the first drops of rain fell from the sky, washing away the dust and the echoes of the past, Anya knew that her grandmother’s legacy would live on—silent, hidden, but never forgotten.

The End

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

Guwahati , Assam , India

21/09/2024

Email ID : rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com

Anya’s heart pounded in her chest as the old man’s words echoed in her mind: She wasn’t a villain. It was hard to reconcile the image of her quiet, reserved grandmother with the idea that she had been at the center of a village’s destruction.

“How did it happen?” Anya’s voice was barely above a whisper, as though speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile truth she was about to uncover. “What was she trying to protect?”

The old man leaned back in his chair, his eyes clouded with memories. “It wasn’t something tangible. Not gold or jewels. What she protected was knowledge… ancient knowledge. The kind that shouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Anya frowned, struggling to understand. “What kind of knowledge?”

“There were rumors,” the old man continued, his voice low and cautious, as if the very walls might betray him. “Rumors of a hidden truth. Something that could change the world. Your grandmother, she was a guardian of that truth. But not everyone agreed with what she was protecting.”

Anya’s mind raced. Could her grandmother have been part of some clandestine order, a keeper of secrets that were bigger than the war that had swept through their country? It seemed unbelievable—like something from an old myth, not the real, grounded woman she had known.

But then again, her grandmother had always been a mystery. The long walks she took at dusk, the locked chest she kept in her bedroom, the faraway look in her eyes when she thought no one was watching. And now, it all began to make sense—pieces of a puzzle that Anya had never even known existed.

“Who disagreed with her?” Anya asked, her voice tight with urgency. “Who turned against her?”

The old man’s eyes grew cold. “Everyone. In times of fear, trust is the first thing to go. The villagers—people she had known all her life—turned on her when they realized what she was hiding. They were afraid. They thought she had brought a curse upon them.”

Anya felt a wave of nausea roll through her. “A curse?”

“Superstition is a powerful thing,” the old man said, his voice heavy. “Especially when people are desperate. The war had already taken everything—our crops, our homes, our families. All we had left was each other. But when strange things started happening, when people fell ill without explanation, the village needed someone to blame.”

He paused, his hands trembling as he rubbed them together. “Your grandmother became that person.”

Anya’s mind swirled. This was the kind of twist she hadn’t expected—her grandmother, once revered, now vilified by the very people she had lived among. The story felt like it was slipping away from her, becoming something larger, darker.

“Did she… did she try to defend herself?” Anya asked, her voice cracking.

The old man nodded slowly. “She did. But no one would listen. Fear had already taken hold, and once that happens, reason is lost. They said she was hiding something dangerous, something that would bring doom to us all. And in a way… they were right.”

A chill ran down Anya’s spine. “What do you mean?”

The old man stared into the flickering light of the lamp. “It wasn’t just the villagers who turned against her. Outsiders—men with power, men from the government—they heard the rumors. They came here, demanding answers. And when she wouldn’t give them what they wanted, they made her a target.”

Anya’s stomach churned. Her grandmother had been caught in the crossfire of something far bigger than she could have imagined. And now, it seemed, Anya was stepping into the same shadows, chasing the same truths that had destroyed her grandmother.

“What happened to her?” Anya asked, her voice barely audible.

The old man’s face grew solemn. “She vanished. One day, she was there, and the next… gone. Some say she fled. Others say she was taken. But no one knows for sure. All that’s left of her is the story, and even that has faded with time.”

Anya’s fingers tightened around the edge of her chair. “And the knowledge? The truth she was protecting—did anyone find it?”

The old man gave a weary shrug. “Some say it’s still hidden, somewhere in this village. Others believe it died with her. But if you’re asking whether her sacrifice was in vain… well, that’s a question only you can answer.”( To be continued)
Rajat chandra Sarmah

Guwahati , Assam India

18/09/24

mail ID; rajatchandrasarmah@ gmail.com

Eventually, they reached a vast underground chamber, the air thick with moisture and the scent of earth. In the centre stood a pedestal, upon which rested a crystalline structure that pulsed with an ethereal light. It was the source—an embodiment of the ancient power her grandmother had sought to protect.

Anya approached the pedestal cautiously, mesmerized by the crystal’s luminescence. As she reached out to touch it, memories flooded her mind—visions of her grandmother, standing before this very altar, making the pact that would seal the village’s fate. She saw the fear, the hope, and the unwavering determination that had driven her to safeguard the secret.

The old man watched her closely, his expression unreadable. “This is the heart of the forest’s gift. It holds the power to heal, to destroy, to transform. But it must remain hidden, guarded by those who understand its true nature.”

Anya felt a surge of understanding. “Why did my grandmother hide it?”

“Because its power is too great for any one person, any one community, to wield without consequence. It demands balance, respect, and responsibility. To misuse it is to invite chaos.”

As she stood before the crystal, Anya realized the magnitude of her grandmother’s sacrifice. She had taken on the burden of protecting something that could alter the very fabric of existence, ensuring that its power remained in harmony with the world.

Suddenly, the chamber began to tremble, the ground shifting beneath their feet. Anya and the old man exchanged alarmed glances as cracks formed in the walls, light flickering ominously. The crystal’s glow intensified, and a voice echoed through the chamber, resonating within their minds.

“Who dares to awaken the guardian?”

Anya stepped back, her heart racing. “I seek to understand, to protect.”

The voice seemed to weigh her words, testing her resolve. “To protect is noble, but the path is fraught with peril. Are you prepared to bear the consequences of your actions?”

Without hesitation, Anya replied, “Yes. I am.”

The chamber fell silent once more, the tremors ceasing as abruptly as they had begun. The crystal’s light dimmed to a gentle glow, and the voice spoke again, softer this time. “Then may your heart guide you, and your intentions remain pure.”

A sense of calm washed over Anya as the chamber settled. She turned to the old man, who nodded approvingly. “You have proven yourself worthy. The legacy of your grandmother lives on through you.”

Tears welled in Anya’s eyes, a mixture of relief and profound responsibility settling upon her. “I promise to honour her sacrifice and protect this gift.”

The old man placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “The journey is just beginning. Others will seek the power of the forest, and you must be ready to guide them, to ensure that the balance is maintained.”

As they made their way back through the passage and into the forest, Anya felt a newfound sense of purpose. She understood now that her grandmother’s silence had been a shield, a way to protect not just the village but the world from the immense power that lay hidden in the forest’s depths.

Returning to the village, Anya shared her discoveries with the remaining villagers, uniting them in a common goal to safeguard the secret. Together, they rebuilt what had been lost, not just physically but in spirit, fostering a sense of community and understanding that had been fractured by years of fear and betrayal.

In the days that followed, Anya continued her work, documenting the true history of the village and her grandmother’s role in its preservation. The old man, seeing her dedication, began to share more of his memories, helping to piece together the fragmented stories that had( To be continued)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah

Guwahati , Assam ,India

13/09/2024

Email ID: rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com