Manihara
Rabindranath Thagore
My boat was parked along that dilapidated embankment. Then the sun went down.
The boatman is praying on the roof of the boat. In the burning sky of the west, his silent worship was being painted like a picture from time to time. On the waters of the river without a fixed line, innumerable colorless spectacles were seen, from pale to dark writing, from gold to steel, from one aura to another.
Sitting alone in the twilight-ridden ghats in front of a window-broken verandah-hanging-dilapidated large building, the corner of my dry eye was soaking wet in the evening, at which point I suddenly heard a startle from head to toe. ”
I saw that the gentleman was short of food, very disrespectful to Bhagyalakshmi. Like most foreign servants in Bangladesh, they have a long-worn, unreformed appearance. On the dhoti, a dirty oiled accused matkar button is pressed open; He seems to be returning from work for a while. And when he should have had a little refreshment, the unfortunate one has come to the river bank only to have the evening breeze.
The stranger took his seat on the stairs. I said, "I am coming from Ranchi."
"What is done."
"I do business."
"What business."
"Greenery, silk cocoons and timber business."
"What a name."
I paused and said a name. But he is not my own name.
The gentleman's curiosity was not aroused. Again the question was, "What are you doing here?"
I said, "Climate change."
The man was somewhat surprised. He said, "Sir, I have been eating quinine in the air for about six years now, with an average of fifteen grains a day, but to no avail."
I said, "I have to admit that there will be a significant change in the air from Ranchi."
He said, “Command, yes, enough. Where will you live here? ”
I pointed to the dilapidated house on the wharf and said, "In this house."
The man must have suspected that I had found some hidden treasure in this haunted house. But he did not argue about it, only the details of what happened in this cursed house fifteen years ago today.
The man is the schoolmaster here. His hungry and diseased face, under a huge bald spot, a pair of large eyes gleamed in an unusual glow from inside his hole. Seeing him reminded me of the ancient sailor created by the English poet Colridge.
The boatman has concentrated on cooking after completing the prayers. At the end of the evening, Avatuku came to Milai and the desolate dark house on the ghat stood silent like a huge ghost statue of its predecessor.
