Some great stories

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3 years ago
  • Avagir Sorgo

Thakurdas Mukhujaya's elderly wife died of a seven-day fever. Old Mukhepadhyay Mahasaya is very consistent in paddy business. He has four sons, three daughters, a son, a son-in-law - a group of neighbors, a servant - a baker - he is like a festival. People from all over the village came to see the funeral procession. While weeping, the girls thickened their mother's legs and covered her head with red cloth. The brides rubbed their foreheads with sandalwood, covered their mother-in-law's body with precious cloths and wiped her last dust with a bandage.

In the flowers, in the leaves, in the scent, in the garland, in the call, it didn't seem like a rabbit thing in this corner - it was as if the housewife of the big house was making a new journey to her husband's house once again after fifty years. Old Mukhepadhyay calmly said goodbye to his eternal companion, wiped away two tears and comforted Shaikart's daughters and brides.

All the villages went on at once with the loud green sound of the morning sky. Another animal stayed a short distance away and joined the group. She is Kangali's mother. He was walking along the road with a few eggplants in his cottage - Gaeta in the courtyard. He could not move after seeing this scene. Raheel went to his market, Raheel tied his belt, he came to the crematorium behind everyone, wiping away tears. Garuda in a secluded village - crematorium on the banks of the river.

There were already loads of wood, pieces of sandalwood, ghee, honey, incense, incense, etc., Kangali's mother did not dare to approach him as a child, daughter of Dul, standing on a high mound in the distance and watching all the funerals from beginning to end with keen interest. It's okay. When the corpse was placed after a wide and sufficient cheetah, his red legs - seeing Dukhani - closed his eyes, he wished to run away and wipe a point on his head. When the mantraput fire of the son's hand was combined with the green sound of many voices, tears began to fall from his eyes,

I kept saying in my mind, "Lucky mother, you check me - bless me too, so that I too can get the fire from Kangali's hand." Fire in the boy's hand! He is not talking about Saeja! Husband, son, daughter, grandson, granddaughter, slave, maid-in-law family - all the family was bright and seeing this ascension - her chest began to swell, - it was as if she could no longer have the good fortune.

The smoke of the newly lit cheetah was rising in the sky, casting a shadow of blue, Kangali's mother could clearly see the appearance of a chariot. How many pictures of him are painted on his body, how many herbs are wrapped around him at the top. Who is sitting inside - his face is unrecognizable, but his vermilion line, the soles of his feet - are painted in two layers. Looking up, tears were flowing in the eyes of Kangali's mother. My mother looked back in shock and said,

"Randhbae khan re!" Suddenly pointing his finger upwards, he said anxiously, "Look, look, father, -Bamun - mother is riding in that chariot!" The boy raised his face in surprise and said where? After observing for a while, he said at the end, you are angry! Wash it! He said angrily, at noon, I do not understand the hunger? And immediately he noticed the tears in his mother's eyes and said, Bamun's accountant is dying, why are you crying Maurice mother?

Kangali's mother regained consciousness. She was ashamed to stand in the crematorium for the next time and shed tears like this, she even wiped her eyes for a moment in fear of the boy's misfortune and tried to smile a little and said, why are you crying Ray! - It's like washing your eyes! Hmmm, maybe not. You were crying! Mother did not protest anymore.

Holding the boy's hand, he went down to the ghat and took a bath himself. After bathing Kangali, he returned home. While naming the child, Bidhatapurush stays in the space due to the stupidity of the parents and most of the time he does not stop laughing but protests. So all their lives they have been living on their own names.

The history of Kangali's mother's life is short, but that short Kangaljivantuku was relieved of the responsibility of this ridicule of Bidhata. His mother died after giving birth to him, his father got angry and named him unfortunate. There is no mother, the father is fishing in the river, he has neither day nor night. However, the fact that the little unfortunate one day survived Kangali's mother is an object of wonder. The man she married was named Rasik Bagh, another tiger of the tiger. She took it and went to the village. The unfortunate one remained in the village with his unfortunate son Kangali.

That Kangali of his has grown up and is now fifteen feet tall. He has just started to learn cane work, the unfortunate person hopes that if he can fight with his unfortunate person for another year, his grief will go away. No one knows what this sorrow is except the one who gave it. Kangali came out of the pond and saw his mother covering the leaves in a clay pot. He was surprised and asked, "Are you playing, mother?

" Bella is gone, Dad, I'm not hungry anymore. The boy did not believe, said, no, nothing but hunger! Where, I see his pot? Kangali's mother has been cheating Kangali for a long time due to this deception. He saw the pot but left. There was rice like another. Then he happily went and sat on his mother's lap. A boy of this age does not usually do this, but since he has been a child for a long time since he was a child, he has not had the opportunity to leave his mother's crore and mix with his outside companions.

Sitting here, he has to meet the sadha of sports. With one hand wrapped around his neck and his face on his face, Kangali was startled and said, "Mother, her body is so hot, why did you go to see her standing in the middle of the night?" Why did you take Eli again? In Mar-Perana, are you a mother? She pressed her hand to her son's face and said, "Dad, there is no need to say in Marana-Perana, it is a sin.

" Sati - Lakshmi Ma - Thakrun went to Sagya in a chariot. The boy said suspiciously, one of his words mother! Someone gets in the chariot and goes to Sagya again. Mother said, I see Kangali, Bamun - mother sitting on the chariot. Tena's red legs - sad that everyone sees the match! Did everyone see? Everyone sees. Kangali leaned on her mother's chest and began to think.

His habit is to believe in his mother. Karitei has taught her since childhood, when the mother says that everyone has seen such a big thing with their eyes closed, then there is nothing to disbelieve. After a while he said softly, then you will go to the mother sagye? Bindi's mother was telling the shepherd's PC that day, Sati Lakshmi is no longer in a dilemma like a cancer mother.

Kangali's mother remained silent, Kangali began to say so slowly, when her father let her go, she tried to do as much as she could. But you said no. I said, if Kangali lives, my sorrow will go away, why should I go to Nike again? Yeah Al that sounds pretty crap to me, Looks like BT aint for me either. I might not have been able to eat so long as I would have died.

The mother held the boy in her arms with both hands. In fact, the advice did not go unnoticed by him that day, and when he did not agree to anything, the harassment did not go unnoticed, and tears welled up in the unfortunate man's eyes. The boy wiped his hands and said, I will get the kata mother, Shubi? Mother remained silent.

Kangali Madur Patil, Katha Patil, to pull the sixth pillow from the scaffolding and take him by the hand and drag him to the bed, mother said, Kangali, today he has no work to do. Kangali liked the offer of earning money very much, but said, if it is money, then mother will not give it! Dik gay, -I call him a fairy tale.

And not to be tempted, Kangali immediately lay down on his mother's chest and said, if the ball. Rajputtur, Kotalpur and the Bird King Ghaera - The story begins with the unfortunate prince, Kotalputra and the Bird King Ghaera. A - All the legends told to his successors for how long and how long.

But the moment - a few moments later, where his prince had gone, and where his son-in-law had gone - he began to tell a story which he did not learn from the next - his own creation. The more the fever hit his house, the faster the warm blood flowed to his brain, the more he began to compose new magic stories. There was no pause, no separation - Kangali's short body began to tremble again and again.

Frightened, surprised, she wrapped her arms around her mother's neck and wanted to mingle with her breasts. Outside, the day was over, the sun had set, the pale shadows of the evening grew darker and darker, but no lamps were lit in the house today, no one got up to perform the last duties of the householder, in the deep darkness only . He is the story of that crematorium and cremation procession.

That chariot, that red foot, that is his going to heaven. How Shaikart's husband cried and said goodbye with the last footsteps, how the boys carried the mother away with a hoarse voice, then the fire in the child's hand. That fire is not fire Kangali, he is Hari! Dad, not the smoke of his sky, the chariot of Sagya! Kangalicharan, my father! What mother? If I get the fire in his hand, father, like Bamun-maar, I too will be able to go to Sagya. Kangali just said indistinctly, yah - needless to say.

1 Mother could not hear him, she sighed and said, no one can hate then - no one can stop her from being sad. Yes! The fire in the boy's hand, the chariot must come. The boy put his face on his face and said in a broken voice, "Don't say, mother, don't say, I'm scared." The mother said, "And look, Kangali, I will bring her father once, as if to send me away with the dust of my feet on my head." Immediately on the legs, with vermilion on the head, but who will give? You give, or Ray Kangali?

You are my son, you are my daughter, you are all mine! As he spoke, he hugged the boy tightly to his chest. The life of the unfortunate - the last act of the play was coming to an end. The expansion is not much, little. I agree that thirty years have passed even today, whether it has happened or not, it has ended in the same way. There was no Kabiraj in the village, he lived in a different village. Kangali went and made mud, fell on his hands and feet, tied a knot at the end and gave him a penny.

He didn't come, Gaeta gave four pills. How much is his arrangement? Khal, honey, ginger, basil juice - Kangali's mother said angrily to her son, why didn't you tell me to go and stop it, father! He took a few pills in his hand and put them on his head and threw them in the oven.

Day two - three went like this. Neighbors came to see the news, who knew the fists, the deer's horns - rubbed water, the guts - burned the cow and licked it with honey, etc., looking for the infallible medicine that went to work. As the boy Kangali got up, his mother pulled him to her and said, "If nothing happens in the coverage pill, will the father and their medicine work?" I'll be fine. Kangali cried and said, "You don't play pills, mother, I threw them in the oven." Is anyone like that? I'll be fine.

Instead, you eat two rice - boiled rice and eat it, I look. This is the first time that Kangali has started cooking rice with his hands. Couldn't get fan at home, couldn't get better rice at home. The stove does not burn - water falls inside and washes away; The rice is scattered around in the pour; Mother's eyes widened.

He tried to get up once by himself, but could not straighten his head and fell down on the bed. When he had finished eating, he took the boy to him and went to give him instructions on what to do. His weak voice stopped, and only tears flowed from his eyes. In the village God knew how to see the barber's pulse, the next morning he saw his hand and made a serious face in front of him, sighed and finally shook his head. Kangali's mother understood the meaning, but she was not afraid. When everyone left, he said to the boy, can you call him once this time, father?

Whose mother? Kangali understood that he had gone up to the village and said, "Father?" The unfortunate remained silent. Kangali said, why will he come mother? The unfortunate man had enough doubts of his own, yet he said softly, "Go and tell me, my mother only wants a little dust on your feet." When he was about to leave, he grabbed her hand and said, "Daddy, make a little mud." Pausing for a moment, he said, "Just measure me on the way back." I love you very much.

Many people loved him. Until he had a fever, he had heard so many things in his mother's mouth so many times that he left there crying. The next day, when Rasik Dule arrived on time, the unfortunate man did not have much knowledge. The shadow of death has fallen on his face, the sight of his eyes is the work of this world - where has Saria gone to some unknown country.

Kangali cried and said, Magae! Dad has arrived - he will take the dust off his feet! The mother may have understood, may not have understood, or perhaps her deeply stored desire struck at his obsessive consciousness like reform. The dying traveler stretched out his arms outstretched out of bed.

Rosik stood stunned. He also needs the dust of his feet in the world, it is beyond his imagination that anyone can want it. Bindi's PC was standing, he said, give it to Baba, give it a little dust. Rasik came forward. He did not love the woman in his life, did not give her clothes, did not do any research, at the time of her death he just went to give her a little dust and wept.

Rakhalerma said, Satilakshmi Bamun - not born in the house of Kayet, why he was born in the house of our pendants! This time, give him a little speed. I don't know what the unfortunate god of misfortune thought while sitting in silence, but when the boy went to Kangali's chest, it was like an arrow..

The day passed, the first night passed, but Kangali's mother could not wait for the morning. I don't know if there is a chariot in heaven for so many children, or if they have to leave on foot in the dark, but it is understood that he has left this world before the end of the night. In the courtyard of the cottage, a bell-tree, an ax was brought, and Rasik did not give him a blow.

He took out his ax and said, "Damn, is there a tree of his father that you started cutting down?" Rasik started rubbing his hands on his cheeks. Why did you kill your father? The Hindustani Darayan also went to kill him with an inaudible insult, but he had touched his mother's corpse, so he did not touch her for fear of uncleanness.

A crowd gathered in a hurry, and no one denied that it was not good to cut down a tree without permission. They were the ones who fell on Darayanji's hands and feet again, he kindly gave an order. Because, during the illness, whoever came to see Kangali's mother took her hand and expressed her last wish. Darayan is not to be forgotten, he raised his hand and said that all these tricks will not work for him.

The zamindar is not a local lake; He has a kashari in the village, Gamsta Adhar Roy is his master. When the lakes began to plead unsuccessfully to the Hindustani, Kangali ran to the Kachari house with a sigh. He had heard from Lake that pedestrians take bribes. Alas, inexperienced! He did not know the zamindar of Bangladesh and his employees.

The motherless boy had come up to the top in a daze and excitement. I am Kangali. Darayanji killed my father. Well done. Haramzada, do not understand the rent? Kangali said, "No, Babumshay, my father was cutting down trees, my mother was dying - she couldn't stop crying." The lips became very annoyed at this crying. Chhorata has come to touch the dead, do you know if some of the bhuiyan here! He rebuked her and said, "If your mother dies, take whatever you can." Who are you, Ray, spread a little gaberjal here! What kind of boy are you?

Kangali stood down in the courtyard and said, "We are shaking." Lips said, I will hear what will be the wood of the swinging pendant? Kangali said, my mother told me to set fire! You don't ask Babumshay, mother has told everyone, everyone has heard that! When he went to talk to his mother, he remembered all the requests of his instantaneous moment and his voice seemed to burst into tears. Adhar said, the price of the tree is five rupees for my mother. Can you? Kangali knew that it was impossible.

The price of his northern kinibar is the price of his rice khaibar brass kasiti bindi pc went for a penny he saw with his own eyes, he shook his head, said, no. He distorted his lips and said, "No, take your mother and bury her in the river." Whose father's tree his father goes to stop the ax - wretched, wretched, naughty! Kangali said, he is the tree in our yard babumsaya!

She is a tree planted in my mother's hand. Hand-planted tree! Pandey, the boy was strangled out! He fell down and choked, and uttered words that only a zamindar's servant could. Kangali stood up shaking off the dust, then slowly walked out. Why he was beaten, what was his crime, the boy could not think. Gamestar did not read the stain in his impassive heart. If he reads, this job is not suitable for him.

He said, Paresh, see if the batter's rent is due. If there is a net, he can snatch something and leave it, the bastard can escape. Mukhuyye - the day of Shraddha at home - sometimes only one day left. The arrangements for the ceremony are being made suitable for the housewife. The old Thakurdas was returning after taking care of himself, Kangali came and stood in front of him, saying, Grandmother, my mother is dead. Who are you What do you want?

I am Kangali. Mother told Tena to set fire. That's not gay. The story of Kachari had already been spread by word of mouth, one said, he was bound to want a tree. - Saying this, he revealed the incident. Mukhuye was surprised and annoyed and said, Shane Abdar. How much wood do I need? Whatever it is, nothing will happen here - nothing will happen here. Saying this, he left elsewhere.

Bhattacharya Mahasaya was sitting at a distance and making a fard, he said, who will win them again? Which, with a little nudge burning on the face of the river. Mukhakapadhyay Mahasaya's eldest son was busy going this way, he listened a little and said, look at Bhattacharya, all the batteries now want to be Bamun-Kayet. He went to work and went somewhere else.

Kangali did not pray anymore. In this hour-and-a-half experience, he seemed to have grown old in the world. Silently he slowly approached his dead mother. Digging a hole in the river bank, the unfortunate one fell asleep. The shepherd's mother lit a straw in Kangali's hand, took his hand and touched his mother's face and threw it away.

After that, everyone buried the ground and erased the last trace of Kangali's mother. Everyone was busy with all the work, - only the little smoke that was rising from the straw bale to the sky, Kangali stared at him with unblinking eyes.

  • Niriho Banglai

We are weak innocent Bengalis. What a sweet liquid tenderness is expressed in this Bengali word. Ah! Which Bidhata was created by this Amiyasikta Bengali? Kusum's virginity, Chandra's Chandrika, Madhur Madhuri, Yuthika's fragrance, Supti's silence, Bhudhar's immobility, Navani's tenderness, Salil's fluidity - in a word, Bengali has been formed with all the beauty and softness of the universe! As our name implies, all our activities are simple and straightforward.

We are sculptural poetry - if you think of India as an English type building, then Bangladesh is its drawing room and Bengali is its drawing room suit! If you think of India as a superior, then Bengali is Padmini in it. If you think of India as a novel, then Bengali is its heroine! Bengali masculinity in the male society of India! Therefore we are sculptural poetry.

In our food - camel's camel, horseradish and putti fish jhel - very juicy. Our foods - ghee, milk, lamb, nabneet, milk, cream, sandesh and rasgella - are very tasty. The main fruits of our country, mango and jackfruit - juicy and sweet. Therefore our food is threefold - juicy, delicious, sweet. The body is nourished according to the quality of food. So just as horseradish is rich in seeds, so is the pot in our country. There is more tenderness in Navani, so there is more cowardice in our nature.

Needless to say more about physical beauty; Now let's talk about costumes. Our bridegroom's limbs are like oily newly formed sukomal, wearable andhrap very fine Shimla dhoti and chador. It does not interfere with ventilation! From time to time we use coat shirts for the sake of civilization, because men are tolerant of everything.

But half of us - Hemangis, blacks don't use the shameless costumes (shamiz jackets) of English ladies instead. They are very delicate Lalita, shy Latika, so they wear very smooth and delicate ‘air sari’. All Bengali objects are beautiful, transparent and easily accessible. If you want to write about the quality of Bengali, you need an ink, paper and a tireless writer.

But let me briefly describe two of the four qualities. There are two ways to increase wealth, trade and agriculture. Trade is our main business. But that is not to say that we, like Sindabad (in the Arabic novels), do not fall into the abyss of despair by floating in the infinite sea in the hope of uncertain results in trade. We have made it (trade) easy and easy.

In other words, I have eliminated the hard work required in trade. For this we do not have the necessary items in the store, only luxury goods - various hair oils and various antiseptics and red brass ornaments, imitation diamond rings, batam etc. are available for sale. There is no manual labor in the visual business. We do not keep pure army silver jewelery because of lack of money.

Especially today, ink is not a fake thing? Whenever someone prepares "long-haired" oils with a little care, we bring out "short-haired" in that imitation. There are all kinds of counterfeit and useless things that can happen. We don't trade in rice, because it requires hard work. One of our businesses is the sale of passes.

The name of the pass seller is "groom" and the buyer is called father-in-law. Do you know the price of a pass? "Half kingdom and one princess". M, A, Pass Amulyaratna, it is that he is not the buyer's credit. If sold at a very cheap price, the price - one princess and the whole kingdom.

We have wondered whether we are lazy, fluid, industrious, weak Bengalis, it is easier to plunder the old fool's father-in-law than to earn money by working physically. Now let's talk about agriculture. Food can be increased by agriculture. But we have thought that it is easier to do brain culture than to do agriculture. In other words, it is easier to produce money by memorizing than to cultivate fertile land. And it is easier to pass M.R.A.C than to excel in agriculture.

It is more difficult to practice knowledge about agriculture than to practice law. Or it is easier to read Famine Report while sitting in a comfortable chair under a stretcher than to study knowledge about agriculture in the hands of students during the sun. So we are trying to produce money without trying to produce food. We have no shortage of money, so there will be no food shortages. Let the poor and miserable all starve to death, what about us? We perform many more simple tasks.

(1) It is easier to get the title of "King" than to establish a kingdom.

(2) It is easier to pass B.Sc and D.Sc than to be proficient in art.

(3) It is easier to spend money for the title of "B Bahadur" or "Ray Bahadur" than to gain fame in the country for a small amount of money.

(4) It is easier to be civilized in the Shake meeting than in the grief of the neighboring poor.

(5) It is easier to receive alms from America than to work for the famine of the country.

(6) It is easier to surrender one's life in the hands of medicine and doctors than to take care of one's health.

(7) It is easier to try to be beautiful by applying Kalida, Milk of Rage and Vinelia powder (Kalydore, milk of rose and Vinolia powder) than to enhance the spirits and beauty of the face by improving health (i.e. to be healthy & cheerful).

(6) It is easier to sue for defamation than to retaliate with one's own hand by beating someone. Then we embodied laziness - our housewives at the forefront of this. Some people ask their wives to cook for themselves. But I say, if we do not tolerate the sun.

Ri, but how will our halves endure the heat of the fire? We are soft-spoken - they are soft-spoken; We are readers, they are readers; We are writers, they are writers. So if we are cooks, why should they be cooks? So the one who asks the Divyanganas to cook without Lakshmi should have three kinds of punishment. For example, burn him in

(1) Tushanle, then

(2) slaughter him, then

(3) hang him. We are all poets - more compassionate than heroic in our poetry. We have more writers than writers here. That is why tears flow more in the flow of poetry without any reason. What do we omit when we sit down to write a verse? "Broken shurpa", "worn kantha", "old chatijuta" - nothing is abandoned. How many new words have we created again; Namely- “Ati Shuvranilambar,“ Sashrusajalnayan ”etc. The tragic lament of the ladies - the delusional verse “Bengal is slowly drowning in the flood of tears! So you see, we are all poets. And how much self-praise? Let's conclude now. A.

  • Polli Sahitto

There is no shortage of singers, musicians and dancers in Palligram according to the city. The cuckoos, doyles, papayas, etc., the chirping of birds, the rustling of the river, the murmur of the leaves, the swaying of the green grains are filling the lack of the city in large quantities. Literature is scattered in the fields of the rural ghats, in the alabatas of the villages, in every layer of the countryside.

But just as we live in the air and forget that we are drowning in the air-sea, so we do not feel from the neighborhood how great literature and literary materials are scattered. Respected Dr. Dinesh Chandra Sen Mymensingh has collected the lyric and shown what an invaluable mine of literature is hidden in the corner of the chest of a village woman.

Mymensingh's Medina Bibi has been fascinated by the beauty of the far western literary Rama Rama. According to Mansur Bayati, how many more village poets are hiding in the countryside before the eyes of the urban people, who will come to their literary gatherings and introduce them to the world? If the ballads of these unknown poets were collected and published from every village in Bangladesh today, it would be seen how rich the Muslims of Bengal are in literary resources.

But alas! Where is the volunteer team for this work? How pleasant it is to hear the words that we have fallen asleep in our childhood listening to in the corner of the old woman's face in the village. How amazing. The value of rural legends is no less than that of Alauddin's Wonder Lamp, Alibaba and Forty Robbers in Arabic novels. In the current of modern education, they are sinking into the abyss of oblivion.

The now-educated mother no longer listens to the child of the shepherd's pitha tree, the sleeping princess of Rakshasapuri or the Pankhiraj Ghader, telling them the story of an Arabic novel or a translation of a story from Lambs Tales from Shakespeare. As a result, this is a witness to the distant past Myths are ruined and our relationship with the past is being affected.

If all the myths of Bengal were collected today, archaeological research could show that the story of grandparents in the secluded corners of Bengal is spread to other parts of the Indian subcontinent or outside the Indian subcontinent like Sinhala, Sumatra, Java, Cambodia etc. Maybe in Europe, outside Asia, in the corners of Lithuania or Wales, the village lady is still living her children or grandchildren in those legends in some way or another.

Who will collect these legends and save them from inevitable destruction? There are meetings of great scholars in Europe and America called Folklore Society. Their job is to collect these and judge the similarities with the legends of other civilized countries. These are accepted in the scholarly society as valuable materials of anthropology.

Mr. Dakshinaranjan Mitra Majumdar's 'Grandma's bag' or 'Grandpa's bag' is not enough. If all the legends of Bangladesh are gathered in one place, according to the encyclopedia, it will not be included in a few balams. We read in Shakespeare that the monsters are talking about Fi, Fie, foh, fun! What is the similarity between the smell of the blood of a British man and the smell of the village man?

But did one day those white Englishmen and the former men of Bengal in this era live under the same tent as brothers? Who knows how many days he is today? We add proverbial words in words - such as 'teeth have no dignity', 'catch fish or touch water', father's name if you live, how much more! Then there is the call, there is the word of mine. For example, if you don't eat banana leaves, you will get rice. Who can deny that the mature fruits of geography have been stored in proverbs and in the words of Dak and Khana?

Not only this, many secrets of the history of the nation are also found in it. We still say today- 'The news of Peera sitting on Peera. This proverb reminds us of the time when Pandua was the capital of Bengal. Who will collect these proverbs, sayings, sayings and keep them alive forever? Then let's talk about rhyme. The children started cutting rhymes word for word.

It is raining during Raed, they are getting up in unison with Raed, water is falling, Khekshiali is getting married. At the same time, think of that sleeping song of the mother, that kheka - the rhyme of the girl. These are the living sources of succulent life, but today there is no happiness in misery. Chharao is gradually forgetting Lala. Who will immortalize them in the pages of a book?

Why just rhyme? No matter how many sports there are or were in our country. When no one knew the name of football or batball, there was a lot of hype in the game. The boys used to say how much he was not tied to the game: one hand bella bar hand horn flies balla dha ting ting. With the introduction of foreign games, there has been an attempt to get these laps. Who will keep them alive?

Then let's talk about Palligan. These songs are invaluable gems in the field of rural literature. That issued song, that Bhatiali song, that Rakhali song, Marfati song - an endless collection of songs is scattered in the village ghats, in the fields. There is so much love, so much joy, so much beauty, so much philosophy. Due to the influence of urban songs, they are no longer sold in the society as the songs of barbaric farmers.

But in my heart I could not get out of it. Can you compare this song with any of your urban songs? But what are you trying to do to collect them continuously? From what I have said so far, these are the ancient resources of the countryside. There is no shortage of new rural resources in terms of donations to the literary treasury.

Nowadays, Bangla literature says that the literature that is going on, urban literature is being brought in its fifteenth, citizen literature is to be called sadhu. In that literature, there is talk of Raj-Rajara, Babu-Bibi, Matergari, Bijli Bati, cinema theater, blowing in a tea bowl. Stories, novels, poems, plays are being written about these things.

There is no place for the rural peasants, fishermen, and laborers. How many are bothering about their happiness and sorrow, their sins and virtues, their hopes and aspirations? Our world-renowned poet-emperor was once again busy with civic literature in the old way by saying ‘Ebar firao mere’. Whether there is a plank in the paddy field, now the urban people know it, but the life of the village is an unknown state to them. It is absolutely rotten and disgusting to Karai, and surrounded by the moonlight near Karai.

How do they know the essence of the countryside? How to draw his face? Today we need to build a bungalow of rural literature next to the balakhana of urban literature. Today, the souls of many people want to be free from the artificial bondage of bricks, stones and layers and become human beings in earthen houses. We need to make some concessions for them. In Europe and America today, this proletariat is gradually gaining a foothold in literature, and in our country as well. But where is the village poet, novelist and literary man, who can perfectly capture the image of this village in front of the eyes of the city?

All these fairy tales, folk tales, rhymes, etc. are the common property of all according to the alabatas of the country. There is no difference between Hindus and Muslims. Just as a child has the same right as a mother, so in this rural literature all the Hindu and Muslim children of a rural mother have equal rights. There was a great rural literature in Bengal. His skeleton is still something, he is on the verge of destruction due to change of time and taste.

No one cares about them except the lakes of the old-fashioned neighborhood. But there was a day when Nair's beard - from the boatman to the housewife's wife - from the boy to the old man, from the rich to the poor - gave all these happy advice. If the children of the village women pay attention to the village literature, then I think the organization of such a village literature meeting will be successful, otherwise all these cables are fake, cable fakkikara.

Semantics and annotations: Kalgan- melodic sound. Wear-by-layer. Dr. Dinesh Chandra Sen Researcher and devotee of Bengali language and literature Dinesh Chandra Sen was born in 18 AD in the village of Bagjuri in Manikganj district. In 1334 BS, he was the first to present the glory and dignity of lax literature in Bangladesh in the book 'Bangabhasha O Sahitya'. Mymensingh Geetika and Purbabanga Geetika, collected by Chandrakumar Dey and edited by him, were published from Calcutta University.

Among the original books of Dinesh Chandra Sen, Ramayani Kotha, Mahtanganga, Behula, Fullara, Jarabharat etc. are worth mentioning. He passed away in 1939. Roman Rolland is a French literary and philosophical writer. Rama Raela was born on January 29, 18 AD. Jean Christophe's novels are invaluable. For this book he received the Nanabel Prize in Literature in 1915. He died on 30 December 1939.

Medina BB - Mymensingh is the heroine of the lyric song 'Dewana - Medina' included in the lyric. Mansoor Bayati - "Dewana - the famous poet of Medina's Lakgatha. Alauddin's Wonder Lamp The most fascinating story in the Arabic novel is 'Alauddin's Wonder Lamp'. The place of this story is China.

A brave young man named Alauddin gets the wonderful lamp of a cunning magician. Alauddin was the only son of a poor miserable mother. As soon as this lamp was rubbed, a mighty demon would appear and perform miracles as per the order of Alauddin. In this way, thanks to this lamp, Alauddin became the owner of a lot of wealth. Mother's grief is also removed. Alibaba and the Forty Robbers - one of the most famous stories in Arabic novels.

The poor woodcutter Alibaba luckily finds the gang's secret treasure in a mountain cave. He brought a lot of money from there and kept it at home. The bandits take him to his house to avenge Alibaba. Alibaba, with the help of its intelligent plaintiff Morzina, overpowered the bandits.

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3 years ago


really awesome and nice article

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