It was already 11.55, five minutes
to strike twelve, another ‘New Year’. I’d to rise early. My train was at 5.30. It was my last night in Santagar and I didn’t want to go to sleep and skip this night in my habitual nightmare that I was experiencing all these months. I just sat on the couch on the veranda. It was early winter and the weather was pleasant. Everyone visited me in the afternoon, Mohon, Shanti, Sabana Apu, and other neighbours. Then I was alone with the whole universe but not feeling lonely. The stars were smiling above and the Bokul tree was standing there wrapped in a white aureole, glowing all over it. I opened my diary on my lap. I started writing under the moon’s generous beam that could not provide me with any clear visibility but a touch of soothing caress, just like my Mamoni. Every time I wished to subdue my heart, I unfolded my diary in darkness and closing my eyes I just went on writing what I felt. All the choked-up emotions unlatched their doors and dripped through my pen. The crooked overlapping lines and letters could only capture the true colour of my heart. I didn’t remember for how long I had written but my sense came back when my alarm whistled vigorously piercing the serene night with its mechanical resonance. I slept on the couch hugging my diary. I packed it and got ready. I called Mohon and locked my house. Mohon would send the keys to Basu uncle and take me to the station. Coming downstairs I stared at my house through the solitary silence and then at the darkness, the upcoming uncertain future with a serious intensity
Hey, I am Munmun, the phoenix fabulist who wants to tell you stories. I love to read stories and I love to weave stories. I feel life is an amalgamation of multiple stories, colourful threads, and threads of pain, pleasure, hope, and hopelessness. We just need to pick those hues and arrange them, knitting them with our own emotions and perception. So let’s celebrate the stories of life.