As most of you know, I am an author as well as an environmentalist. The topic for this month-environmental issues in books and films- was both a good and bad topic for me. Let's get with the negative one. As a very devoted writer, I hate watching films, and I hate giving reviews on books. I find it spoiling that someone would read the critiques and summary of a book before reading it.

So I'm not going to share any reviews of books and films. As you can probably assume from the title of this report, I'm going to write about my own story. In fact, I'm going to paste the story in below for you to read, instead of giving a review, because, like I mentioned: REVIEWS SPOIL EVERYTHING. So off you go. Read LOST.

Warning: this short story might make you cry. Make sure you have a handkerchief.

LOST: A story of losing your identity, your grip and everything.

***

The waves become more and more violent with each passing second. They crash on the land, over the cracks caused not a long moment ago, tearing chunks away and dissolving them in its water, swallowing. It is obvious that where you are standing now, will be undone in a couple more seconds.

"Seema!"

You don't understand. You don't understand how this can happen. You remember studying in school, you remember the teachers proudly telling you: Bangladesh is a land full of rivers. We're proud of our waters. How can you be proud of such a vicious beast? 

"Seema, get out of there!"

You can feel the vibration under your feet. You close your eyes, and for a moment, you want it to destroy you. You want it to swallow you up, just like it had taken apart your homeland, piece by piece. 

"Seema, get back!"

Your eyes fly open and you pull back, just in time for the waves to hit and the land break and fall, where you were just standing. You watch, wide-eyed, the bits and pieces falling off like the crumbs on a biscuit, bubbling up in the water.

"What were you thinking?!" your mother appears around the corner, grabbing you and pressing you against her body, your face on her stomach. She drags you away from the water, from the breaking land, to safety. She grabs your face hard and makes you look at her. "Don't ever ever do that again. Don't you ever. Understood?" her words are angry, but you hear the fear behind them.

Then her eyes focus on something else, behind you, and she lets you go to run towards that. You turn around to see your father kneeling waist deep in the water, crouching over a piece of land. Your mother kneels down beside him, puts her arms around him to pull him back.

"Rasel, Rasel, come out of here!"

"I can't," you hear the broken voice of your father. Baba, you think. "I can't. I can't leave maa. I can't leave her to the waters."

"Rasel, stop this madness! Stop it!"

Your father reaches out his hands, gathering the wet mud in his fingers, as if trying to hug the land. "No," he murmurs.

"Rasel, you'll die!"

"So what? So what if I die! This river has taken everything away from me. My home, my land, my property-now, it is taking my mother's grave. What is there left?"

"What will happen to us!" your mother screams. "What will happen to Seema?! Think of your daughter. What will she do without you?"

Your father seems to wake up. He moves to see you standing over a few feet away. You see the tears shining in his eyes. 

"Baba," you breathe, and you realize you are crying too. You find it strange that you didn't realize it before.

Your father runs to you and hug you tightly. "We need to get out of here," he says. "To safety."

"Where? Where will we go?" your mother begins to cry. "We have no home left."

"We will go to my brother's house, first. Maybe he'll let us stay for a couple of days," even though he speaks almost certainly, you do not miss the tremor of hopelessness behind his voice. "Then, maybe we'll go to the city."

"The city? We have no money-"

"I will get a job there. The city always has jobs."

"What is the city, baba?" you ask.

He manages to smile at you. "The city! Dhaka! Didn't you read about it in school? Big roads, many cars. And many many people. You will love it."

Your mother scoffs. Your father pretends not to notice.

"We will have a new home," he says, looking at you. 

"New home? But this is our home, baba. Why do we need a-" your father's smile fades, and he bites his lip, trying not to cry. Your mother hides her face behind the sleeve of her sari.

"We do not have a home anymore," she says, her voice tear strained.

Just at that moment, the roar of the river diverts your attention. You see the waves crash on what used to be your grandmother's grave; and with bleeding horror, you watch the piece of land break away, sinking in the water.

"No," your father exhales. Then screams louder, "NO!"

"Rasel," your mother can barely restrain him from running towards the water. "Rasel, we need to keep moving."

Your father begins to cry. "Maa…"

"Rasel-" 

"I couldn't save you, maa…forgive me…"

Your mother manoeuvres your father back, somehow. His gaze stays fixed at the water, where your nani's grave still stood, a second ago. 

She tilts your chin up to meet your eyes. Her face is like a cracked stone. "I'm bringing your father. You take the belongings out of here," then, her grip tightens on your face, so hard, you almost cry out. "Do not go near the river."

The river. You look back at the violent Padma, its waves crashing on the land that you once held dear, threatening to break it apart. I hate you, you think. I will never forgive you. I am not proud of you.

"Go," your mother says urgently. "Quick."

You oblige and drag the heavy trunks out of the unstable land. Your mother grabs your free hand, dragging you along with her, while your father leans on her other arm, broken and grieved. You walk deeper into the village. When you hear the gurgling sound, more horrible than the others before, you cannot help but glance back, only to see your whole house, along with your mother's beloved mango tree, be swallowed up by the water. And then, nothing, you see nothing. Just the white-blue water, swirling around, basking in its glory, its claim upon your home, your roots, your identity-everything that you once had, now lost.

***

By 2050, it is predicted that 20 percent of Bangladesh's land will sink beneath the Bay of Bengal. The water levels has increased because of climate change, along with the rate of natural disasters, such as river erosion. Thousands of people have lost their homes, their property because of river erosion in Bangladesh. Let us raise our voices, let our anger, our despair be heard by the industrialized countries, who have forced this future upon the third world.  

THE END.

Now, I ask you to give me a review of what you think about my story. In the comment section. Feel free to mention any problem, any glitch so I can make a better piece.