The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Anya felt her throat tighten, her mind reeling. Her grandmother? The woman who had raised her with such quiet grace, the woman who had lived in silence, carrying the weight of secrets Anya had never known? Could she have been the key to everything that happened here?

“Tell me more,” Anya whispered, her voice trembling. “What did she do?”

The old man shook his head. “I can’t tell you everything. Some things… are better left buried.”

But Anya wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave it at that. Not now, not after all the years of silence. “Please,” she urged. “I have to know. If she was part of this… if she was responsible… I need to understand why.”

The old man sighed, the sound filled with a lifetime of regret. “The past isn’t as simple as you think, child. Your grandmother was many things, but she wasn’t a villain. She did what she did because she believed it was the only way to protect us. But in the end, no one could be saved. Not truly.”

The room seemed to shrink around Anya as the old man’s revelation sank in. Her grandmother—a woman she had admired and loved—was intricately tied to the village’s dark past. Questions swirled in her mind, each one more urgent than the last. Why had her grandmother never spoken of this? What exactly had she done to both protect and destroy the village?

Anya took a deep breath, steadying herself. “If she wasn’t a villain, then what was her role? What did she protect us from?”

The old man looked away again, his eyes glazing over as if he were peering into a distant memory. “There was something hidden in the forest, something ancient and powerful. Your grandmother discovered it—something that could change everything. But with great power comes great danger. Some wanted to exploit it, to bend it to their will. She made a pact to keep it safe, to ensure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Anya felt a chill run down her spine. “What was it? What was hidden?”

The old man sighed, the weight of his memories pressing heavily on him. “Legends speak of a source of immense energy, something that could heal or destroy. It was a gift from the earth, but it demanded a price. To protect it, your grandmother and a few others took an oath. They hid it, concealed its existence even from themselves. But secrets have a way of surfacing, especially when fear and desperation take hold.”

Anya’s mind raced. Her grandmother had always been a figure of strength and mystery, but this added a layer she had never imagined. “What happened because of this pact?”

“Fear and mistrust,” the old man replied softly. “As rumours spread and tensions rose, fractures appeared within the community. Friends turned against friends, and alliances formed and shattered overnight. In the end, it wasn’t the outsiders who destroyed the village, but the very people who were meant to protect it.”

Anya leaned back, absorbing the gravity of his words. “Is there still something left in the forest? Something that needs to be protected?”

The old man nodded slowly. “A few of us remember. We guard the secret, but we’re dwindling. Time is not on our side. If the truth ever comes out, it could either save us or lead to our ultimate downfall.”

Anya felt a surge of determination. “I need to see it for myself. I need to understand what my grandmother was protecting and why she made the choices she did.”

The old man studied her for a long moment as if weighing her resolve. Finally, he spoke. “If you truly seek the truth, then you must journey into the forest. But be warned—what you find there will change you. The forest holds not just memories, but the very essence of what was lost.”

Anya nodded, her resolve hardening. “I’m ready.”

The old man stood, his movements slow and deliberate. “Very well. Follow me.”

He led her out of the dilapidated house and down a narrow path that wound through the overgrown village. The air grew cooler as they approached the edge of the forest, the trees standing tall and silent, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind. Anya felt a sense of both fear and anticipation, the unknown stretching out before her.

As they ventured deeper into the forest, the light dimmed, and filtered through the dense canopy above. The sounds of the village faded, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of unseen creatures. They walked in silence for a time, the old man guiding her with a steady hand.

Finally, they reached a clearing where the remnants of an ancient structure lay hidden beneath layers of vines and earth. It was a stone altar, weathered by time but still imposing in its presence. Symbols and markings covered its surface, intricate and enigmatic, hinting at a civilization long forgotten.

The old man knelt before the altar, running his fingers over the carvings. “This is where it all began. The source was here, hidden beneath the earth, waiting to be discovered. Your grandmother knew that revealing it would bring both salvation and destruction.”

Anya stepped closer, her eyes tracing the patterns. “How do we find it?”

He looked up, meeting her gaze with a mixture of hope and sorrow. “There are clues within the markings. They guide those who seek with pure intentions. But beware, for the forest tests those who enter its depths. It will reveal your deepest fears and desires.”

Taking a deep breath, Anya felt a connection to her grandmother that transcended time. “I understand. I have to do this.”

The old man nodded, a faint smile breaking through his stern demeanour. “Then let us begin.”

Together, they began to decipher the symbols, each one unlocking a piece of the puzzle. As they worked, Anya felt a strange energy in the air, a palpable force that seemed to resonate with her very being. It was as if the forest itself was acknowledging her presence, accepting her quest.

Hours passed as they meticulously followed the clues, leading them deeper into the heart of the forest. The path grew more challenging, the terrain rugged and unforgiving. Anya’s muscles ached, but she pressed on, driven by the need to uncover the truth.

Finally, they arrived at a hidden entrance, concealed behind a curtain of ivy. The old man hesitated for a moment before pushing aside the foliage, revealing a narrow passage that descended into darkness. A sense of finality settled over them.

“This is it,” he said quietly. “Beyond this point, there is no turning back.”

Anya took a deep breath, her hand reaching for the lantern he had brought. “I’m ready.”

With a nod, the old man lit the lantern, casting a warm glow that illuminated the entrance. They stepped into the passage, the air growing cooler and the light dimmer with each step. The walls were adorned with the same intricate symbols, guiding them further into the unknown.

As they walked, Anya couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, the forest alive with unseen eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of fear and excitement propelling her forward. The passage seemed to stretch endlessly, the silence only broken by the distant drip of water and the soft footsteps of their journey.

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.( To be continued)

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

Guwahati , Assam , India

12/09/2024

Mail ID : rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.co

Inside the dimly lit room, the smell of burning wood filled the air, mixing with the scent of damp earth. Anya sat on a wooden chair, its legs uneven, and watched the old man as he moved around the small space, lighting an oil lamp.

“You’re not the first one to come asking questions,” he said, settling himself across from her. “But the others… they didn’t stay long. The truth is not something people want to hear.”

Anya leaned forward, her heart racing. “I’m not afraid of the truth. Please, tell me what happened here.”

The old man stared at her, his eyes hardening once more. “This village… it wasn’t destroyed by outsiders, not in the way you’ve read about. It was torn apart from the inside. Betrayal… it always starts from within.”

Anya’s breath hitched. “Betrayal? By whom?”

The old man looked away, his gaze distant, as if he were seeing something long buried in his memory. “It was a pact… a promise made to protect something… something valuable. But in the end, it destroyed us.”

Anya’s mind raced. What could have been so valuable that it led to the ruin of an entire village? And how was her grandmother involved?

“There was a woman,” the old man continued, his voice quieter now. “She was at the heart of it. She knew things… things we didn’t understand. Some say she saved us; others say she was the reason everything fell apart.”

Anya felt a cold shiver run down her spine. “Who was she?”

The old man’s gaze finally met hers. “Your grandmother.”( To be continued)

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

09/09/2024

The distant hum of the train faded into the stillness of the landscape as Dr Anya Patel stepped onto the cracked platform of a forgotten village. The cool morning breeze ruffled her hair, and the sun, still climbing the sky, cast long shadows over the crumbling buildings that lined the road ahead. For years, she had read about this place—its tragic history buried in archives and whispered about by elders who remembered, yet refused to speak of it. Now, standing on the soil that had borne witness to an untold horror, she felt a pull deeper than mere professional curiosity.

Her fingers brushed against the aged photograph in her coat pocket. The faces in the photo—sombre and worn—had haunted her ever since she found it in the back of a dusty university archive. Those eyes seemed to reach out to her, demanding recognition, begging for their stories to be told. Among them was a face that tugged at something buried in her past: her grandmother.

Her grandmother had never spoken of the war, the conflict that had torn their homeland apart. Growing up, Anya had sensed a quiet sadness in her, a heaviness that lingered in the space between them. But questions about the past were always met with silence. And then, she was gone, leaving only fragments of stories behind—fragments Anya had tried to piece together.

The road was silent now. The villagers she had come to meet, those few who remained, lived on the edge of this place, where time seemed to stand still. Her footsteps echoed against the walls of abandoned houses as she walked further into the heart of the village, her breath catching in her throat. There was something eerie, unsettling, about the stillness, as if the village itself was holding its breath, waiting.

Her thoughts returned to the photograph. The photograph that had led her here. Why had some faces been blurred, erased from the frame? And why did it feel like those who were left behind had been forgotten, erased from history itself?

Anya knocked on the door of the first house she saw with a flicker of life—a small, humble dwelling with smoke rising from its chimney. The door creaked open, and an old man bent with age squinted at her through the dim light.

“You’re not from here,” he said, his voice raspy but alert.

“No,” she replied, trying to steady her voice. “I’m a historian. I’m here to learn about this village. About what happened… many years ago.”

The old man’s face tightened, his eyes narrowing. “There’s nothing here for you, just ghosts,” he muttered, turning to shut the door.

“Please,” Anya urged, stepping forward. “My grandmother lived here once. I think… I think she was part of something… something important. I need to know the truth.”

The door paused in its arc. The old man’s gaze softened, and after a long silence, he opened the door wider, motioning her inside.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA

07/09/2024

mail ID: rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com

(Part -III)

After that weekend, Rina and Abir’s relationship took on a new dimension. They continued to chat online, but now there was a deeper connection, one that was rooted in the real world. They began making plans to see each other more often, taking turns visiting each other’s cities and even travelling to new places together.

As time went on, their love grew stronger, and the screen that had once been their only means of communication became just another tool to keep them connected when they were apart. They talked about their future together, dreaming of a life where the miles between them no longer mattered.

One day, as they were sitting in Rina’s apartment after a long day at work, Abir turned to her with a serious look in his eyes. “Rina,” he said, taking her hand in his, “I think it’s time we take the next step. I don’t want to be apart from you anymore. Let’s make this real, permanently. Will you move in with me?”

Rina felt a rush of emotions—excitement, love, and a little bit of fear. But deep down, she knew that this was what she wanted. She nodded, her eyes filling with tears of happiness. “Yes, Abir,” she said, her voice trembling. “Let’s do it. I want to be with you, always.”

The decision to move in together was a big one, but it felt right. They found a place that was perfect for both of them, a cosy apartment that became their sanctuary. Living together brought its own set of challenges, but they faced them together, learning to navigate the ups and downs of daily life as a couple.

They laughed, they argued, they made up, and through it all, their love continued to grow. The screen that had once been the barrier between them was now just a reminder of how far they had come. They had taken a chance on a virtual connection, and it had led them to something real and lasting.

As the years went by, Rina and Abir built a life together that was filled with love, laughter, and shared experiences. They travelled the world, started new hobbies, and supported each other through the highs and lows of life. Their love story was unique, but it was also universal—a testament to the power of connection, no matter how it begins.

Looking back, Rina sometimes marvelled at how a simple online conversation had led to the life she was now living. It was a reminder that love could be found in the most unexpected places and that sometimes, taking a leap of faith could lead to the greatest adventure of all.

For Rina and Abir, love beyond the screen had become a beautiful reality, one that they cherished every day. They knew that their story was just beginning, and they were excited to see where the next chapter would take them—together (END)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

06/09/2024

Guwahati , Assam India

Email:  rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com

Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5

The following weekend, Rina found herself on a train headed to Abir’s city. As the landscape rushed by outside the window, she couldn’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and anxiety. What if things didn’t go as planned? What if they realized that their connection was purely digital? But as the train neared its destination, Rina pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the anticipation of finally seeing him.

Abir was waiting for her at the station, holding a small bouquet. The moment she saw him, all her doubts melted away. He looked just like she had imagined, but there was something more—something that the screen could never capture. His smile was warm and genuine, and when he greeted her with a hug, she felt an instant sense of comfort, as if they had known each other for years.

They spent the weekend exploring the city together, visiting museums, parks, and quaint little cafés. Abir was the perfect guide, showing her all his favourite spots and sharing stories about his life in the city. But it was the little moments that stood out the most to Rina—the way he would glance at her with a shy smile when he thought she wasn’t looking, or how their hands would brush against each other as they walked side by side.

One evening, as they were sitting on a bench overlooking the river, Abir turned to Rina with a serious expression. “Rina,” he began, his voice soft, “I know this might sound crazy, but I feel like I’ve known you forever. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and I don’t want this weekend to end. I don’t want us to go back to just talking online.”

Rina’s heart swelled with emotion. She had been thinking the same thing, but hearing him say it out loud made it all the more real. “I feel the same way, Abir,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “This weekend has been perfect, and I don’t want it to end either.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the river gently flowing in the background. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, they turned to each other and kissed. It was a kiss that spoke of all the emotions they had shared over the past few months, a kiss that bridged the gap between their digital and real-world selves ( TO BE CONTINUED)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

05/09/2024

Guwahati , Assam India

Email:  rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com

Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5

 (Part -I)

Rina had never been one to believe in love at first sight, let alone love found on a screen. Yet here she was, staring at her phone, heart racing with every notification that popped up from Abir. They had met in the most unexpected of places—a virtual book club that had brought together readers from around the world. What had started as a casual discussion about a novel soon turned into something much deeper, as they found themselves exchanging thoughts on life, philosophy, and everything in between.

Abir lived in a different city, hundreds of miles away from Rina. He was a software engineer with a knack for poetry, a combination that intrigued Rina from the start. They began messaging each other every day, sharing their favourite books, songs, and even their secret dreams. It wasn’t long before their conversations moved from the book club’s platform to private messages, then to long late-night calls that lasted until the early hours of the morning.

For Rina, these conversations were a breath of fresh air. She had always been somewhat reserved, preferring the company of her books to the noise of social gatherings. But with Abir, she felt a connection that was hard to explain. It was as if he could see through her, understanding her in ways that no one else had. The miles between them seemed insignificant when they were engrossed in one of their deep discussions, their voices filling the empty spaces of their respective rooms.

As the weeks turned into months, Rina found herself thinking about Abir more and more. She wondered what it would be like to see him in person, to feel the warmth of his presence beside her. The idea both excited and terrified her. What if the connection they had forged online didn’t translate into the real world? What if the magic disappeared when they were face-to-face? 

But despite her fears, the desire to meet him grew stronger. They had shared so much, from their deepest fears to their wildest dreams, that it felt almost inevitable. One evening, as they were talking about their plans for the weekend, Abir casually suggested, “Why don’t you come visit me? I’d love to show you around my city. It’s beautiful this time of year.”

Rina’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t expected him to bring it up so soon, but the thought of seeing him in person sent a thrill through her. After a brief pause, she replied, “I’d love that, Abir. Let’s do it.” (TO BE CONTINUED)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

04/09/2024

Guwahati , Assam India

Email:  rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com

Instagram : @rajatchandrasarmah5

The next day, Arun visited the local music school, where his grandfather had once taught. He met with his grandfather’s old friend and fellow musician, Pandit Sharma. When Arun mentioned the tape, Pandit Sharma’s eyes lit up with recognition.

“Ah, ‘The Melody of Life,'” he said with a smile. “Your grandfather was working on that composition for years. It was meant to be a tribute to your grandmother, who passed away when your father was just a boy. But he never finished it. Something always held him back.”

Arun was intrigued. Why had his grandfather never completed the piece? What had held him back? Pandit Sharma suggested that Arun explore his grandfather’s old notes and compositions, which were still stored in the music school’s archive.

As Arun delved into his grandfather’s work, he began to piece together the story of his grandparents’ love—a love that had been both beautiful and tragic. His grandmother, Meera, had been the muse for many of his grandfather’s compositions, but her sudden death had left a void that even music couldn’t fill. The unfinished melody was Raghav’s attempt to capture the essence of their love, but he had never been able to bring himself to complete it.

Arun’s days in Chandanpur became a blend of the present and the past. By day, he explored his grandfather’s notes, trying to understand the man behind the music. By night, he listened to the haunting melody on repeat, letting it seep into his soul.

The more he immersed himself in his grandfather’s world, the more Arun began to question his own life. He realized that he had been living on autopilot, disconnected from his passions and from the people who mattered most to him. The melody became a mirror, reflecting his own unspoken desires and fears.

One evening, as Arun sat by the riverbank with the cassette player, he felt a sudden urge to play the sitar again. He hadn’t touched the instrument in years, but the pull was irresistible. Back at the house, he dusted off his grandfather’s sitar and began to play, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. The notes came to him naturally, as if they had been waiting all along.

As Arun played, he felt a sense of peace that had eluded him for years. The music flowed from him effortlessly, filling the house with a warmth that he hadn’t felt in a long time. In that moment, Arun knew that he had found what he had been missing.

The next morning, Arun visited Pandit Sharma again and shared his thoughts. “I think I know how to finish the melody,” he said. Pandit Sharma nodded, recognizing the determination in Arun’s eyes.

Over the next few days, Arun immersed himself in the music, working tirelessly to complete his grandfather’s unfinished composition. He drew on everything he had learned—from his grandfather’s notes, from the haunting tape, and from his own heart. Slowly but surely, the melody began to take shape.

The final piece was a blend of Raghav’s original composition and Arun’s own interpretation. It was both a tribute to his grandparents and a reflection of his own journey. When Arun played the completed melody for Pandit Sharma, the old man’s eyes filled with tears.

“Your grandfather would be proud,” he said softly.( To be continued)

Rajat chandra Sarmah

21/08/24

Guwahati , Assam , India

Mail ID : rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com

Instagram :@ rajatchandrasarmah5

Arun Mehta, a 30-year-old software engineer, lived in a world of screens, codes, and conference calls. His days were a blur of deadlines and deliverables, with little room for anything else. From his cubicle in the high-rise office building to his one-bedroom apartment, life had become a well-oiled machine, efficient but devoid of any true joy. Even weekends, once filled with spontaneous outings and laughter with friends, had turned into extensions of his workweek, with meetings squeezed in between grocery runs and laundry.

But beneath the surface, something gnawed at him. A sense of emptiness that he couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t that he was unhappy, per se, but rather that he felt disconnected—from himself, from others, from life.

One Friday evening, as he returned from yet another exhausting day, a call from his mother interrupted his thoughts. She asked him to visit their old family home in the small town of Chandanpur Arun’s grandfather had passed away five years ago, and since then, the house had been left untouched. Arun hesitated but eventually agreed, feeling a strange pull towards his ancestral home.

Chandanpur was a far cry from the urban jungle Arun was used to. The air was cleaner, the pace slower, and the sounds of honking cars were replaced by the chirping of birds. As he stepped into the old house, memories of his childhood flooded back. The smell of incense, the creaking wooden floors, and the sight of his grandfather’s sitar resting in the corner of the living room brought back images of lazy afternoons spent listening to classical music.

Arun’s grandfather, Raghav Mehta, had been a renowned classical musician. A man of deep passion, Raghav had dedicated his life to music. He often said that music was the language of the soul, a bridge between the mundane and the divine. Arun had spent countless hours sitting by his side, mesmerised by the intricate melodies his grandfather played. But as Arun grew older, life took over, and the music faded into the background.

As Arun rummaged through his grandfather’s belongings, he stumbled upon a dusty old cassette tape tucked away in a drawer. It was labelled, “The Melody of Life.” Arun’s curiosity was piqued. He vaguely remembered his grandfather talking about this composition, but he had never heard it. Unable to resist, he searched for an old cassette player in the house and played the tape.

The music that flowed from the speakers was hauntingly beautiful. It was as if every note was infused with emotion, carrying with it the weight of a thousand unspoken words. Arun closed his eyes and let the melody wash over him. For the first time in years, he felt something stir deep within him—a connection to something greater, something beyond the routine of everyday life.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah

Guwahati , Assam , India

19/08/2024

Mail Id : rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com

Instagram : rajatchandrasarmah5