For my last report on the topic 'Environmental Issues in Books and Films', I wrote my own story depicting a n environment issue and shared it. I recieved quite a few positive comments on that, so I decided to share another story written by me, for my free report.

Again, I will say, please feel free to point out any errors and criticise my story; I will attempt to edit, improve and make a better piece.  

Tales of Reminiscence

***

Most people had their bedtime stories at night. Salem got them in the morning. It occured while he was in bed, though, born from the habit of trying to coax (or bribe) him into finishing his breakfast.

Although, today was special. Today, Salem was going to hear a story from his grandfather. So, there was no need to coax him; he'd already woken up fully and began to swallow his rice meal without a fuss, all to listen to dadajan's story. 

"You know about the Nobanno, dadu?" his grandfather began, easing into the armchair beside his bed.

"Of course," Salem said. Who didn't know about the Nobanno? 

"Well, today I'll be telling you the story of it."

Salem frowned. He just clarified to dada that he knew the story.

"Many many years ago, Nobanno was the life of the party for every village."

"Dadu, I know about-"

"Ah, baccha, be quiet. Listen to me. Not only farmers and their families, but also everyone, everyone in the village looked forward to the day, even though they had no part of it. Around the time, Nobanno was considered to be the first day in the Bengal calender."

Salem's eyes widened. This was something he did not know.

"Now, we state Pohela Boisakh to be our first day of the calender. There's another interesting story to how that came to be, which I might tell you some another day," the old man leaned in closer to Salem, "I, myself, have seen Nobanno with my own eyes, the real Nobanno, when the spirit was still alive and energetic."

There was an odd emotion behind dadajan's voice. Salem felt himself to be intrigued. He shifted in his bed, settling down under the comforter and over the cushion, ready to be absorbed by the tale his dadajan was beginning to share.

"Oh, you won't believe it, dadu, the fields used to look so beautiful. Full of golden, ripe wheat, swaying at the occasional breeze as if dancing to a lazy song. The farmers woke up so early in the morning. They walked so far to their fields with their scythes. I was a child then, and with all the other kids, we would follow them around. The farmers cut down the grains together, slicing through the roots with the heavy scythes. They would sweat, wear themselves down with the hard work, but they would still be smiling by the end of the day! I don't suppose you know the joy of a farmer, dadu, when he sees the full grown wheat plants; born from the months of his hard work and patience. It's like a mother growing a child in her womb. 

"The farmers would let us help them sometimes. We were only children then, eager to perform some tasks. Sharpen the dull tool. Pass along equipments back and forth. By the noon, the farmers would have every grain cut off, baring the fields clean, and stack up the grains in heavy bundles that were so hard to lift. The children would bet on each other if they could pick up the heavy load and walk more than a mile. I remember walking a few feet and almost dislocating my shoulder!" dadajan's eyes seemed to gloss over as he reminisced a far gone memory. "Though, the farmers used to lift them up like nothing! They used to be our heroes, you know dadu? Like your superman. They were our supermans.

"The farmers would carry them back to their houses, where the girls would be prepared and waiting. Mothers, daughters, sisters. Ready to crush the grains, ready to process them, ready to cook. The cooking would take forever to begin! We used to be so impatient for the tasty meals and get whipped for being such nags.

"Finally, in the afternoon, the women would begin to make pithas. Pithas from new rice. Us, children, we wouldn't be able to wait; we would steal them straight from the women's kitchens before them serving! My mother… She made delicious bhapa pithas. They were more mouthwatering than any other's. I wish she was alive to make you some; once you took a single bite, you would have never forgotten the taste of it.

" We would eat together, all of us. By which, I don't mean the whole family, but the whole village! We would run to this house, that house, this relative, that neighbour - all to get a taste of their pithas, let them taste our pithas, just wander around everywhere and have fun. At least," dadajan smiled slowly. "That was what we children did. Women had to cook, men had their own work."

"What work did men do?" Salem asked, inturrupting the story for the first time. "After bringing in the grains?"

"They would have to figure out what to do with the grains! How much do you think the women could cook in one day?" dadajan laughed. "They would have to calculate the amount to sell, the amount to keep. How do you think farmers get the money to buy their daily things?" dadajan let out a sigh. "Even before my days, when it was the era of my great grandfather's youth, Nobanno was the first day of the Bengali Calender. It was the British era, then. Villages were under the control of Lords. Jamidar. In those times, the class difference was very prominent, the inequality was very severe, dadu, very severe," a dark look crossed over dadajan's face. "The jamidars treated the villagers very cruelly. But during the Nobanno, everyone would be united. The jamidars would invite villagers over to their big mansions, offer them pithas and other food," suddenly, he scoffed. "Of course, the main purpose behind such invitation was to collect the khazna. You know what khazna is, dadu? Tax. Tax paid to the lords by the villagers for 'living in their properties'," he paused. "But they would still laugh and eat with each other, treat each other same, for one day, at least. And that day was the happiest of all. Festivals to celebrate the first year. I heard all these from my grandfather, just like I'm telling you now."

When dadajan stopped talking, and the silence streched beyond more than a moment, did Salem realize the story was over. He felt a little sad. "Dadajan?" he asked.

"Yes, Salem?"

"Could you ever take me to the village during Nobanno?"

Dadajan's smile melted. Suddenly, he looked very sad. "There isn't the spirit of Nobanno anymore," he said. "The joy of Nobanno was already fading as I grew up."

"What? Why?"

Dadajan clenched his jaw. "Look around you, Salem," he said. "How many things do you see are pure natural?"

Salem furrowed his brows, confused.

His grandfather pointed at the unfinished rice bowl in his hand. "That rice," he said. "That wheat, that grain. It does not come from the Nobanno anymore. It comes from the artificially created breed of wheat, now ripened in the field using pesticide and other chemical elements. You've learned about the climate change, yes?"

"Of course, dadajan."

"There is no late autumn in this country anymore. We say Bangladesh is a country of six seasons. Sounds ridiculous in the present era, if I must say. The summer doesn't even leave until July, and it now rains in the winter! Ludicrous!"

Salem didn't know what to say. He wasn't used to seeing his grandfather act this way.

Slowly, gradually, dadajan calmed down. A hollowed sadness took over his face. "When the environment around you become artificial," he was talking slowly, saying the words like they weighted heavy as stone. "You get artificial as well. The British era's gone, the class division has dissolved. But still, people do not unite together as they used to once, don't bother to visit their neighbours or relatives often. Nobanno still exists, dadu, the farmers still bring wheats home and make pithas. But it isn't what it used to be once; like so many other things." 

There was something in his grandfather's voice something in his face, that froze Salem to his place and forced him to be quiet. Dadajan was arched back in his chair, eyes faraway. His face was depicting a kind of frustration, the hopeless kind. Salem had seen it before, on his mother's face, when he refused to eat roi fish. You've lived your whole life under comfort and luxury, she had said. I fear one day you will face a life when you will stress to afford a single meal, and you will regret wrinkling your nose at the fish.

It seems, he thought. That we break and destroy as the world grows old.