The Everyday Pen

I remember an incident of last year when I was wandering after finishing my part-time photo print work in  Berhampore . The road was busy, and the market looked lively. People were moving in all directions, carrying bags, calling out to each other, and selling their goods. Among all the stalls and shops, one thing caught my attention—a man selling colourful wool. His stall was small, but the wool he displayed looked bright and beautiful. Red, green, blue, yellow, white—he had so many colours neatly arranged. I stopped for a moment to look closer. The man noticed me and smiled. I smiled back. There was something friendly about him that made me feel comfortable. We started talking. I asked him where he came from and how he managed to set up in this busy market. He told me he had been trying to sell wool for many years, but the business was not growing as he hoped. His voice had a little worry, but also determination. He said he always tried new things, trying to find what people like...

Some months ago I went to an insurance office to submit some papers. The room was crowded, and the line moved very slowly. The staff behind the counter seemed busy or maybe tired. People waited quietly. Some were standing, and some were sitting on the edge of plastic chairs. There was a woman, maybe in her fifties, standing near the counter with a small file. Every time she went forward, they refused her papers. They said something was missing or not filled properly. She looked helpless. I could see she didn’t know much about forms or office work. After a few minutes, I went closer and offered to help. She smiled a little and gave me her papers. Together we filled the missing parts, line by line. Just as we finished, the office clock struck one. “ Lunch break ,” someone said, and the staff got up, leaving everyone waiting again. The woman sighed. I told her to sit, and we both waited. I looked out of the window. The sky was bright and calm. A few pigeons were flying slowly over the bui...

One of my happiest childhood memories is visiting my  mama bari , where my  dida  (grandmother) cooked in her kitchen. The kitchen was not just a place for cooking—it was the heart of the house. It was warm, full of smells, and quiet little stories mixed with the food. Dida  cooked on a wood stove. She used small pieces of wood called  pathkathi  to keep the fire alive. I loved helping her with my small hands. Sometimes I would feed the fire, adding more wood so it would not go out. Other times, I had to push the  pathkathi  in the right way so the fire stayed steady. I felt proud, like I was part of a secret mission, learning how to cook and how to take care of the fire. The mornings there felt magical. Sunlight came softly through the small kitchen window. Dust floated in the air like tiny golden lights. The fire crackled, and the sound of pots and spoons made a quiet music in the background. While  dida  stirred the rice and dal, I wo...

This story takes me back to when I was young—maybe in class 3 or 4. At that time, there was an old man who used to patrol our village at night. In his left hand, he carried a stick, and in his right hand, he held a lantern. The lantern flickered like a little star. Electricity had reached our village, but it was weak. The streetlights hardly worked. Even now, I think only two or three lights glow properly. When the old man came near our house, he didn’t shout “ Jaagte Raho ,” like we see in movies or on TV. We never heard anything like that in real life. His arrival was quiet, but always on time. Every evening, between 8:00 and 8:10, he walked by. I do not remember what I was doing at that time, but I do remember stopping everything and quietly going to the window to look. As he walked, his stick made a clear  khat khat  sound on the ground. That sound echoed in the dark and made the night feel alive. I liked to watch him from the window. He moved slowly but steadily. I rememb...