Love of the Forest Bird -Rajuan Ahmed

Forbidden Light

​Thefirst light of morning in the hilly village of Kutukchhari, Rangamati, is likea golden, sacred stream. It spreads over the leaves of the dense green forest,creating an invisible, immortal, and eternal dance with nature. Porinita, ayoung Chakma woman—whose background is mixed with the distant memory of migrationfrom ancient Arakan and the shadow of close contact with Tibeto-Burmanlinguistic groups—walks the hilly path with a bamboo basket on her shoulder,clad in the traditional hand-woven, colorful patterns of a pinon-khadi wrapper.The earth beneath her feet is soft, but her mind is touched by an immense, calmdream.

​Sheknows she grew up in the social structure of the Chakma community, which isdivided into 31 Goa (clans), where the traditional leadership, judiciary, andadministrative activities of the Chakma King are ongoing. Similar to the ChakmaAutonomous District Council in Mizoram, India, communal solidarity and respectfor elders are emphasized here. In Porinita's eyes, there is an invisibleconnection with nature: the gentle, rhythmic song of the Kaptai Lake waves, thesoft, resonating chime of the Rajban Vihara bell, and the calm, profound wordsof Banabhante: "Walk the path of self-restraint, forsake the shadow ofgreed (lobh), abandon jealousy and hostility, and focus on spiritual peace."Her soul’s peace lies in this message.

​Porinita'slanguage, known as Changma or Changma Haudha, is closely related to Pali andChittagonian—a Tibeto-Burman language that changed under the influence of theBengali Sultanate, enriched with words borrowed from Hindi, Pali, Sanskrit,English, Assamese, and Bengali—written in the Aojapath or Ojhapat script. Herlife is molded by the shadow of Theravada Buddhism, which was establishedthrough the reforms of Queen Kalindi in the 19th century. The annual festivalsare the rhythm of her life: the celebration of Buddha Purnima, the exuberanceof the Bizu Festival—all are a part of her existence. She dreams of a brightfuture for her younger sister, Deepti, and silently yearns for a peaceful,clear life for herself one day, a house filled with laughter, and the joyfulclamor of children. These dreams are her only motivation for living. But shedidn't yet know that these very dreams would push her onto the highway ofdestiny. Her artistic mind hadn't yet sensed the black, relentless, andinevitable shadow of hunger knocking at her door.

​Butcan the black, relentless, and inevitable shadow of hunger truly be escaped?That shadow is now deepening in Porinita's family. Her father, Kamini RanjanChakma, a Jhum (slash-and-burn) cultivator, is exhausted from his dailystruggle. A look in his eyes reveals how years of crop failure and waste haveimpoverished him. Hilly soil erosion, the devastation of the rainy season, andthe turbulent waves of floods have taken away their meager possessions. KaminiRanjan is now often somber and helpless. Before sleeping at night, he onlymurmurs, looking up at the sky, "Buddha, are you testing uscompletely?" His wife, Minati Chakma, sits in the shadow of their hillyhome, unable to finish the hand-embroidered pinon-khadi needlework. There seemsto be no color in the thread, only sadness. She whispers to her husband,"Nothing more will come from Jhum cultivation. If we cannot send Deepti toschool this year, we will have nothing left."

​Porinita’solder brother, Soumya Chakma, 30 years old, is mostly unemployed. He goes tothe hills to cut wood for a meager wage, but it’s not enough to run thehousehold. A kind of jealousy and frustration works inside him—he cannottolerate the bright eyes of Porinita or Deepti because he believes his own lifeis a failure. This family crisis hurts Porinita the most. She knows her parentslove her, but the hunger in their stomachs has grown greater than love. Onenight, Kamini Ranjan called Porinita. Tears were in his eyes, which no one hadever seen. "Go to the light of Dhaka, my child," he said. His voicewas broken, as if an old bamboo house was collapsing. "There is a new pathfor life there. Even if we cannot stay here, you be free." Minati Chakmastood silently beside him, the same plea in her eyes. Porinita dreams of afamily life, but the poisonous, relentless serpent of poverty slowly swallowsthat dream, like sinking into a dark ocean. Banabhante’s advice comes tomind—self-restraint, detachment, knowing the truth. But in the fire of herfamily's hungry, pitiful eyes, she agrees. She felt that this was not 'lobh' orgreed, but sacrifice.

​In thevillage market, Mojibur, a middle-aged man with a cunning look, often camearound. His smile was overly oily, like a ruthless trap of illusion. His eyesalways roamed towards the girls, like the sharp gaze of a predatory animal.Mojibur knew the vulnerabilities of the simple village people very well. Heknew that the simplicity and spiritual values of the Chakma community werehidden behind their economic weakness. Kamini Ranjan had gone to him for aloan, and Mojibur seized the opportunity to notice Porinita. Porinita'sinnocent, calm face and her colorful Chakma traditional dress brought a"different value" to Mojibur's eyes.

​Oneday, Mojibur came to Kamini Ranjan and said with a smile, "A golden,modern, respectable life at a beauty parlor. I will take your daughter toDhaka; she will get good pay there. All your debts will be paid off, andDeepti's education will continue." He offered this proposal at a time whentheir Jhum cultivation was completely destroyed due to the rainy season, andthey did not even have a single meal in the house. In this situation, KaminiRanjan and Minati Chakma saw a ray of hope in Mojibur's words. They felt thatDhaka might save their family. When Porinita was told, she was in doubt. Sherecalled the calm words of Banabhante at the foot of the Rajban Vihara, whereit was said to renounce worldly greed and illusion. But her younger sister Deepti'sbright future and her parents' hungry, pitiful eyes pushed her onto arelentless, inevitable path. This was not greed, but the ultimate price oflove, mortgaging the peace of her soul.

​Mojiburconvinced Porinita that her artistic sensibility—the hand-woven colorfulclothes and embroidery of Chakma customs—would be useful in the Dhaka beautyparlor because "designs" were made there. Porinita innocentlybelieved this. This belief was the beginning of her fall. Her journey by bus,leaving the hills, was accompanied by a turbulent, relentless storm ofquestions in her heart: "Is this the ruthless, inevitable dance ofdestiny?" Her colorful Chakma traditional clothes, hand-woven designs,embroidery—all left behind, her artistic spiritual identity headed towardextinction, the beginning of spiritual decline under economic pressure. The busrushed past the hilly roads towards the plain. Tears fell from Porinita's eyes,but one hope burned in her mind—perhaps this journey would save her family.

​Steppingonto the crowded, noisy streets of Dhaka, Porinita was dazzled—the arrogant,dark shadow of tall buildings, the turbulent, noisy ocean of car horns, thecountless waves of human crowds. This city had no resemblance to the free airof Kutukchhari and the chime of the Rajban Vihara bell; it was as if she were aresident of a different planet. Hand in hand with Mojibur, she reached the doorof the beauty/massage parlor, named "Golden Touch Beauty Care." Theparlor's interior was glittering with light and modern decor. Inside, therewere a few other girls, whose eyes held a kind of weary, melancholy shadow.

​"Learnthe art of massage, sing the sweet song of comfort to the customers,"Mojibur said, handing Porinita over to an older woman. That woman, namedZarina, taught her how to give the smooth, soft touch of cream, how to createthe rhythmic dance of hair. In the light of the first few days, Porinitathought this was her new life. She learned how to massage customers' shoulders,how to bring a smile to their faces. She convinced herself that this work wasfor her family. The memories of Chakma art—the complex colorful designs ofhand-woven cloth, the ancient profound folk tales of the Bizakmanuscript—slowly faded here, like the shadow of a distant dream. The memory ofher pinon-khadi was meaningless here.

​But asdays turned to nights, the parlor doors closed. The truth hidden behind thesoft touch of cream was revealed to Porinita. The inner rooms of the parlorwere small and dimly lit. Zarina whispered, "You have to satisfy thecustomers' needs. That's the work here." A turbulent, deep wave of fearrose in Porinita's mind, like a hill river flood. One night, a customer grabbedher hand and dragged her into a dark room. Porinita's scream was silentlyswallowed by the walls. Her innocent faith in Chakma customs was ruthlesslyshattered here. "Is this the ruthless shadow disguised as a job?"Intense pain was in Porinita's heart. Mojibur’s smile was now terrifyinglyruthless, like the devil’s: "You are bound by the complex, invisible netof debt; I am threatening you with the shadow of your family's safety."Hidden behind the modern, respectable facade of the parlor was the deep, darktrap of human trafficking.

​Thesharp, fiery gaze of predatory animals burned in the eyes of Mojibur andZarina. The deceitful, sweet treachery of poison was mixed in their words. Onthe first day, Porinita was told she would receive a fixed monthly salary, withwhich she could pay off a part of the debt and send money home. But thisagreement changed after arriving in Dhaka. Mojibur called Porinita and showedher the accounts. "Your living and food expenses, the cost of newdecorations for the parlor, and the fare for coming to this city—all together,your debt has now multiplied several times," he said, with no sympathy inhis voice. This debt exploitation process was such that Porinita wascontinuously entangled in the debt net under the pretext of high recruitmentfees, the dark shadow of food costs, the heavy burden of accommodation, and otherunnecessary expenses.

​Porinitawas afraid seeing the daily calculation: "This is the invisible, ruthlesschain of 'debt bondage.'" She calculated that her daily income was lessthan the interest on her debt. All escape routes were closed; her financialslavery was certain. Mojibur, the key figure in the trafficking ring, used herinnocent belief and economic vulnerability to turn her into a mere, ruthlesscommodity. The ancient memory of the Shakya lineage in her Chakma folk talesplayed like a sharp, deep pain in her mind—she had now entered a lifecompletely opposite to her ancestors' tradition. The memories of Chakmasports—Gudu Hara (Ha-do-do or Kabaddi), Gilhei Hara (playing with seeds),Nadeng Hara (top)—faded here, forgotten, and melancholy.

​Onedeep night, Mojibur forcibly put her on a dark, silent boat and took hertowards Daulatdia. He said, "Your demand has decreased here. Go toDaulatdia; a golden path, immense money awaits there." There was no hopein Porinita's heart then, only fear. A turbulent river of tears flowed from hereyes amid the Padma's waves, like a sea of infinite sorrow. "Banabhante,did I drown in the poison of greed?" Her spiritual roots were severed; shewas lost in the ruthless, inevitable dance of destiny. The genetic link of theChakma people to the Tibeto-Burman group echoed in her mind as a distant,melancholy sound, as if all the light of her past had dissolved into darkness.The boat rocked on the waves, and Porinita’s heart broke. She knew she wasgoing to an unknown destination from which she might never find liberation.

​Reachingthe dark door of the Daulatdia brothel, a harsh, ruthless voice welcomedPorinita. That voice belonged to the brothel’s madam, Marzina Begum. MarzinaBegum’s eyes held the coolness of calculation, and her voice was a command. Shemade Porinita stand before her and looked at her with a sharp gaze. "Yourname is Roksana from now on," Marzina Begum ordered, with no kindness orsympathy in her voice. "Porinita has vanished forever into the deep shadowof darkness." This name change was a significant, deep psychologicalstrategy to forcibly and ruthlessly erase her Buddhist religious and Chakmacultural identity. 'Roksana'—a commercial Muslim name that made her acceptableand attractive to most of the brothel's Muslim clientele. Marzina Begumbelieved that 'Muslim' girls would attract more customers than a 'Hindu orBuddhist' girl, and the name change would help erase her past.

​Herreal name, religion, language, and all memories of the past—the Changma Haudhaof the Chakma language, the chanting of Pali mantras, the dance and songs ofthe Bizu festival—were forcibly erased, like a priceless, immortal jewelsinking into the deepest abyss of a river. This new name created a tragic,ruthless destiny in her life: she does not want to lose her religious heritage,but this forced Muslim name will create a new, unbearable, and deep problem inthe social and religious context. Therefore, she is forced to hide her trueidentity, so that the complex design of Chakma art remains a secret, melancholyshadow in her heart. In Ahsan's eyes, she will become a 'bad Muslim,' while herspirituality is that of a displaced, lost Buddhist. This is the main source ofher silent love, a turbulent ocean of invisible, deep pain, as if all the lightof her past had dissolved into darkness.

​Hernew life begins with the name Roksana—in a small, damp cubicle where customerscome and go. She is now merely a commodity named Roksana. The girl namedPorinita seems to have drowned forever in the waters of Kaptai Lake. At night,when everyone is asleep, she quietly cries, remembering her old name. She feelsthat this name change has stolen not only her identity but also her soul. Hernew name is like a cold, hard stone placed upon her old dreams.

​Porinita'sentry into the Daulatdia brothel is the final, infinite limit of her life, likea geographical, poetic, ruthless poem of hell—the deep, dark abyss of narrow,suffocating alleys, the turbulent noise of eternal clamor, and the turbulent,bitter sea of stench. This brothel, on the banks of the Padma River, is like amassive market where bodies are bought and sold. The intense, extreme contrastwith the vast, free environment of the Chittagong Hill Tracts is striking—wherethe Rajban Vihara is a holy place of order, peace, and spiritual practice,Daulatdia is a deep center of chaos, forced exploitation, and moral decay.Here, her physical health is attacked—the girls who are victims of humantrafficking are forced to consume stimulating drugs like steroids to meetcustomer demands.

​Thesedrugs strip Porinita of even the slightest control over her body. Her body isexhausted, but she is forced to stay awake. "Is this the ruthless, sharpknife of destiny?" Her cry in the deep darkness of the night raises thequestion, a long, melancholy song of spiritual decline. The memories of Chakmafood—Chu-Ryi (fried bamboo shoot), Sidol (shrimp paste)—remain here as distant,forgotten, melancholy shadows. Her silence is born here, in the deepest, darkestabyss of a moral, spiritual prison. She understands that no one will listen toher words; her objections are worthless. Her only way is to be quiet, to endureeverything in silence. This silence is a final attempt to protect the Porinitainside her. She hides her inner Chakma heritage behind this silence.

​Thissilence is the last, unexpressed song of her heart—the immortal, pure flower ofsacrifice, the silent, profound tear of defeat, and the eternal, immortalsymbol of mental struggle. Every night, new customers, new pain—but a smile ispainted on her face, a mask of silence. She is now Roksana, a commodity. Hereyes cannot speak because speaking will increase the pain. This silence burnsher from within, but from the outside, she is calm, like the still water ofKaptai Lake. Behind this silence, she carefully hides the memories of her past,her 'strong desire for a family life' (songsar kora khub ichcha), and herBuddhist religious beliefs.

​Thecontinuous rhythmic song of trucks speeding on the highway keeps the wheel ofBangladesh's economy moving swiftly. This highway is not just a path of brickand stone; it is the lifeblood of the nation. Ahsan Ali found his life on thispath. Ahsan Ali is an educated, responsible young man from Noapara in Jessoredistrict. Even at 33, a kind of neatness and dedication is noticeable in hisdemeanor. He drives a truck daily, carrying goods to distant cities; hisprofession is a part of the nation's driving force. At his home, there is thesacred shadow of a respectable family with his wife, Fatemah Khatun, andchildren, Iqbal and Layla, like the light of a peaceful home. Fatemah is adevout woman who respects Ahsan very much.

​Thehighway is a symbol of freedom and endless, continuous motion to him. Thismotion is the complete opposite of Porinita's confined, dark, and painful life.Ahsan knows that the goods behind his truck are meeting the needs of thecountry's people. This sense of responsibility sets him apart from other truckdrivers. But Daulatdia is a necessary, inevitable stop on this journey. Truckshave to wait for hours at the Daulatdia ferry terminal to cross the PadmaRiver. This waiting and the loneliness of the road draw him towards the brothel.Ahsan convinces his mind that this is merely a way to find 'rest' and'alleviate loneliness.'

​Buthis education and sense of responsibility put him in a kind of deep moralconflict regarding the dark world adjacent to his profession. He is consciouslya part of the nation's economy, but with the rotation of his truck's wheels, heis also indirectly sustaining the dark side of human exploitation. Ahsan is aneducated man who understands the good and bad of society, so a sense of guiltarises in his mind. He loves his wife, but the long, lonely nights on the roaddraw him to Daulatdia. This ambivalence sets him apart from others. He sits inhis truck and thinks, "What am I doing? Is this right?" Heunderstands that this highway carries not only goods but also people'sdestinies.

​AhsanAli visits the brothel regularly. His demeanor and way of speaking carried akind of sensitivity and humanity that was completely exceptional compared toother customers. At their first meeting, during a simple transaction, Ahsan'svoice was like a gentle, sensitive tune. He asks Roksana (Porinita), "Adeep, turbulent sea of sorrow is hidden in your eyes. Are you tired?" Thissimple, humane question touched Porinita profoundly. Other customers saw hermerely as a body, but Ahsan treated her as a human being. He showed exceptionalrespect, asking her name, even though he knew it wasn't her real name.

​Ahsan'sbehavior gives rise to a deep, silent love in Porinita's mind. This feeling wasnot merely a part of her life as a commodity, but a flash of the lost, normal,respectable life (of having a family) she once desired. This love is silent,unexpressed, and immortal—she could never voice it. This love is a silent, deeprebellion within her—her heart's last, immortal resistance against the systemthat forces her to be emotionless. She feels that Ahsan is the person with whomshe wanted to see a house full of laughter and the joyful clamor of childrenone day.

​Ahsantalks to her, asking about her past, but Roksana remains silent. She onlyshrugs her shoulders and remains quiet. His touch is soft; his eyes holdsympathy. This sensitivity of Ahsan reminds Porinita of the shadow of herChakma heritage, as if the rhythm of the Bizu festival dance plays in herheart. She counts the days until Ahsan returns, clinging to his memory, as ifthe Three Jewels of the Chakma religion are mixed in her silence. Porinitaimagines his picture at night but never speaks. Her love is silent, like thewhisper of the hill wind. She knows that this silence is the only security forher love. If she opens her mouth, Mojibur will know, and both their lives willbe at risk.

​Porinita'smind is now submerged in a deep, complex vortex. On one side, her silent,intense love for Ahsan Ali, and on the other, her unbearable mental burden. Sheis hiding her Buddhist religious identity behind the name Roksana. This firmconviction works in her mind that if Ahsan finds out she is a prostitute, andmore importantly, a Buddhist, Ahsan's respectable life, his wife Fatemah, andhis children would be instantly ruined. This hidden identity is the biggest,ultimate barrier to her silent love. It is not only social but alsoreligious—like an invisible, unbearable wall.

​AhsanAli is an educated, responsible Muslim man. In Bangladeshi Muslim society,pre-marital love is considered an ultimate 'fitna' (moral trial) in Islam, andlove before marriage to a lawfully wedded woman is forbidden. For an educated,responsible man like Ahsan, accepting a Buddhist prostitute is socially andreligiously impossible and ruthless. Although the Special Marriage Act of 1872provides some legal path for inter-religious marriages, that provision isvirtually meaningless and forgotten in the face of social and communal stigma.With the shadow of some Christians in the Chakma community far away, hercurrent profession and **Buddhist religious identity** would instantly destroyAhsan's social standing. This religious and social rigidity is the main reasonfor her silent love.

​Thisreligious barrier prevents her from revealing her truth, like a deep sea ofunbearable pain. Porinita chants her Buddhist mantras in her mind but remainssilent in front of Ahsan. She knows that her silence will save Ahsan's life andturn her love into a holy, eternal sacrifice. Even though she has a 'strongdesire for a family life' (songsar kora khub ichcha), she does not want todestroy the sanctity of Ahsan's family (Fatemah and children). An intensemental conflict is going on inside her: the self-sacrifice of a Buddhist toprotect the honor of a Muslim. This sacrifice is her new Nirvana.

​Porinitacontinuously retreats to her past spiritual, holy life, like an exile. Sheremembers the gatherings at the Rajban Vihara, where Banabhante had preached:'Nirvana' can be reached by knowing the truth and establishing faith inmorality, renounce the worldly 'sea of existence' (songsarshomudro). Sherepeatedly recites Banabhante's words in her mind, as if those words are heronly salvation. But Porinita is now stuck in the dirtiest, darkest part of thatsea, like a ruthless prison. The distance between the Porinita inside her andthe Roksana outside is now sky and earth.

​Thismemory does not come as a consolation but creates a sharp, deep self-judgmentof her current condition. She feels that she is so polluted that her conditionis completely opposite to Banabhante's teachings. The Chakma genetic link mixeswith her self-censorship, singing a song of pain. This spiritual self-censorshipforms the foundation of her silent sacrifice. She feels that she is no longerworthy of attaining 'Nirvana;' her only liberation is to dedicate this sinfullife to some noble purpose. That purpose is—to keep Ahsan's life away from theshadow of her stigma and to send financial help to her family.

​Atnight, she wants to hear the Vihara bell but hears only the wail of the Padma'swaves and the clamor of the adjacent room. Her cubicle is now her own Vihara,where she quietly atones for her sins. Her body is imprisoned here, but hersoul still returns to Banabhante's message on the hill peak. In this spiritualexile, Porinita strengthens her silence further. She knows that if she speaks,her silent struggle will break, and she will deviate from her path ofsacrifice. This silence is the last symbol of her religion, the last attempt atpeace within her.

​AhsanAli, on his regular visits, begins to notice the deep, melancholy sorrow onRoksana's face, like the shadow of a dark sea. He understands that her life isnot only economically but also mentally devastated. As an educated man, he isaware of the exploitative reality around him, which puts him in a deep dilemmabetween responsibility and desire. He respects Roksana as a person, but a sharppain of guilt arises in his mind about repeatedly coming to this environment.At this stage, he does not understand that Roksana feels love for him; heconsiders her only as a 'victim to be rescued.'

​Ahsanknows that most girls in this brothel are victims of poverty and trafficking.He sometimes reveals his humane side to Roksana. He asks her, "Do you wantto be free from here?" Roksana only smiles then. That smile was pitiful,which confused Ahsan even more. The Chakma social structure and tradition(which he has heard of) raise a storm of questions in his mind. He wonders, hasthis girl come from some traditional society where she was respected?

​Ahsansighs, sitting in his truck's cab. He has everything in his life—a wife,children, a respectable profession. But coming to this brothel makes him smallin the eyes of his own morality. He understands that he is a part of thisexploitation process. His coming means sustaining this system. He repeatedlytells himself, "I will not come again." But the loneliness of thehighway and Roksana's silent, melancholy eyes draw him back. This ambivalencemakes him weak. He knows that if his wife Fatemah learns about this, his lifewill be shattered. Ahsan sits in his truck and thinks, "What am I doing?Is this right? Can I help her somehow?" His mind becomes restless becausehe feels his debt to humanity.

​Mojibur,the pimp and representative of the trafficking ring, is extremely careful abouthis economic interests. Ahsan's repeated visits and his exceptional interest inRoksana worry Mojibur. He knows that educated, sensitive men like Ahsan canawaken the 'dream of liberation' in these girls' minds, which is fatal for hisbusiness. Roksana is one of his 'best earning' girls because her silent, calmbeauty attracts customers. Mojibur increases his surveillance strictly, fearingthe loss of his economic asset (Roksana).

​Oneday, Mojibur called Roksana to a dark corner. Cruelty was in his eyes."Don't talk much with that truck driver. Do you remember how much yourdebt is? Your parents still live in the hills, right?" Mojibur remindedher of her debt and gave a ruthless threat of dire consequences if she tried toescape. He hit Roksana's weakest spot—the security of her family. Mojibur said,"If you try to run away, I will find your family. I will take away theirlast belongings."

​Mojiburis the physical embodiment of the system; his presence ensures that no personalemotion or relationship can violate the framework of financial exploitation.Roksana's storm of fear became even more turbulent and deep, like the wave of adark sea. The faces of her parents and younger sister Deepti floated in hermind. She knows that what Mojibur is saying is true. This fear forces her tokeep Ahsan away. She remains silent and calm, looking into Mojibur's eyes. Hersilence is now a shield to protect her family. She decides that she will notaccept any proposal from Ahsan because it would not only risk his life but alsobring extreme danger upon her family.

​In theface of Roksana's desperation and Mojibur's ruthless pressure, Ahsan decidesthat he can no longer remain silent. The moral crisis within him forces him todo something. He feels that his small effort might free this girl from hell.One night, when the clamor of the brothel has subsided somewhat, Ahsan comes toRoksana. Determination was in his eyes. "I will take you out of here,Roksana," he whispered. "I will pay Mojibur all your debt money, evenmore. Come with me."

​Ahsantook out a thick bundle of cash from his pocket and showed her. This was hissavings, earned through long labor. This proposal from him was a heroic,merciful act, which could only offer a material solution. He believed thatpaying money would solve the problem. However, his proposal had a deficiency:he avoided the fundamental question of social and religious barriers—where theywould go after the rescue, how they would live in society, like an incompletedream. Ahsan felt that humanity and the responsibility of an educated man werein his mind. He saw Roksana not merely as a prostitute but as a victim, whom itwas his duty to rescue.

​"Comewith me, Roksana. I can give you a good life. I will find you another jobsomewhere where you can live with respect," Ahsan said. He did not speakof any emotion because he knew he had his own family. But intense sincerity wasin his voice, which deeply touched Roksana. This proposal momentarily awakenedPorinita's 'strong desire for a family life.' An intense light flashed in hermind, but immediately Mojibur's threat, her Buddhist identity, and the image ofAhsan's respectable family floated before her. Her silence deepened. Thebiggest test of her life was now before her.

​Porinita(Roksana) rejects Ahsan's proposal, wrapped in a silent, skillful, deep sorrow.Standing in front of Ahsan, she slowly shakes her head. No tears fell from hereyes, because she knew her tears would reveal her weakness. "No, I am finehere," her voice was almost a whisper, like the sound of the hill wind."Don't ruin your life." Behind this rejection was the highestexpression of her silent love and her realism.

​Shegives the excuse of her own unworthiness and the risk to Ahsan's life. Thisfirm, eternal conviction works in her mind that she cannot enter Ahsan'srespectable Muslim life with her prostitute identity and Buddhist religiousidentity. She knows that even if Mojibur's debt can be paid, the debt tosociety is impossibly ruthless. If Ahsan takes her, he will have to answer tohis family, his society, and his religion. Ahsan's life would be instantlyruined. The faces of Fatemah Khatun and Iqbal-Layla floated in her mind. Shedecided to sacrifice her own happiness and her 'strong desire for a familylife' to ensure Ahsan's social respect and security.

​Thisact of love establishes her as the heroine of a higher, eternal tragedy, whereshe consciously chooses her own destruction. The unique Chakma customs andtradition mingle with her sacrifice, singing an immortal song. She tries tosmile, looking into Ahsan's eyes; that smile was ruthlessly melancholy. Ahsandoes not understand her rejection. He thinks Roksana does not love him thatmuch or does not want to be rescued. He does not understand that this silenceis actually the ultimate, highest form of love. Porinita kills the Porinitainside her and sacrifices herself as Roksana for her family.

​Notunderstanding Roksana's silent rejection, Ahsan is intensely hurt, angry, andconfused. He did not understand the silent, pitiful smile coming from her eyes.He had thought that after so much money and such a sincere proposal, Roksanawould surely agree. He felt that Roksana did not love him that much or did notwant liberation from this life. He tries again, perhaps expressing a littleemotion, but Porinita's fear and her decision of self-sacrifice silence him.

​"Areyou sure, Roksana? This life is not for you. Why are you doing this?"Ahsan asked.

​Roksanaonly shook her head. If she opened her mouth, her tears would come out, whichwould weaken her decision. Her silence was her last resistance. She knows shehas to be strong, for Ahsan. This incomplete, melancholy farewell ensures theultimate tragedy of their relationship: their separation happens because ofmisunderstanding and silence, like a ruthless destiny.

​Ahsanleaves. He turns back toward his truck, an unexpressed, deep emptiness fillinghis heart. He returns to Noapara, Jessore, his home, but the wound of thatsilent love from Daulatdia scars him forever. He might return to the normalcyof life, but the honesty or sympathy within him as a human being fades forever.This loss of his is created by the system, which moves forward indifferentlyeven through human exploitation, like a dark highway. Returning home, heembraces his wife, but the shadow of Roksana is in his mind. His silence is nowAhsan's silent emptiness.

​AhsanAli's memory has now become another distant part of Porinita's past—forgottenand distant, like the hills of Kutukchhari or the words of Banabhante. Thecycle of debt and coercion continues, like a ruthless loop. Marzina Begum andMojibur ensure that Roksana makes no mistakes. Roksana, having sacrificed her'strong desire for a family life,' completely surrenders to destiny. Thisdecision of hers definitely imprisons her own life, but it is the last andgreatest immortal expression of her love, like the song of a cage.

​Shesits alone, clinging to memories, but life goes on. Porinita's silence is now apermanent feature of the brothel. She no longer protests or speaks. Thissilence is her only way to survive.

​AhsanAli's departure was the farewell to the last humane connection in Roksana'slife. As he drove away on the highway in his truck, the Porinita deep insideRoksana seemed to die once more. Now she is only Roksana—a name, a commodity, apiece of flesh that is bought and sold in the dark alleys of this brothel. Thissilence of hers, which was once the symbol of the highest sacrifice of love, isnow the only companion of her painful life. She now concedes even moreobedience in Marzina Begum’s cubicle. There are no more dreams in her eyes,only exhaustion and emptiness. But behind this emptiness, in the depth of hermind, Porinita is still alive. Every night she imagines the face of her youngersister, Deepti Chakma. Deepti is now going to school. Porinita knows for surethat Deepti is getting new books and new clothes with the small amount of moneyshe sends. This thought gives her the strength to endure this life of hell. Shetries to see her 'strong desire for a family life' fulfilled through Deepti.

​Thestories of Chakma traditions, the hand-woven designs, the rhythm of the Bizudance—these are now distant memories whispering to her. She mentally recitesBanabhante's message: "Leave the turbulent waves of the worldly sea ofexistence and merge into the deathless, pure light of Nirvana." She nowunderstands that worldly happiness (family life) is not for her. Her Nirvana isthis sacrifice, this silent surrender. This mentality turns her into the heroineof a higher tragedy.

​MarzinaBegum, the madam of this brothel, is a harsh, ruthless woman. Her eyes alwayscalculate; the word 'kindness' or 'sympathy' never leaves her mouth. SinceRoksana (Porinita) rejected Ahsan's proposal, Marzina Begum's surveillance hasincreased even more. Marzina Begum understood that a desire for freedom hadonce arisen in Roksana's mind, and she made sure it could not resurface.Marzina started sending her to more customers. Her reasoning was, "Themore you work, the sooner the debt will be paid off." But Roksana knewwell that the calculation of this debt would never end.

​Roksanais now physically and mentally devastated. According to the brothel's rules,she is sometimes forced to take stimulating drugs (steroids) to satisfycustomer demands, which pushes her body to the extreme limit of exhaustion. Shefeels that she has no control over even the slightest part of her body. Hercondition is like the fire of the Chakma Jhum cultivation—it burns inside her,but it yields no harvest; it only destroys. The physical decay of her bodymakes her even more depressed. She sits alone and cries at night, but there isno one to hear her cry. Her cry is like the silent wail of the Kaptai Lakewaves. She remembers her mother, Minati Chakma, who used to do pinon-khadiembroidery by hand. That embroidery was the symbol of Porinita's artistic mind.But now, her own body is like a canvas for embroidery, where the scars ofcustomer touches are drawn.

​MarzinaBegum calls Roksana every morning to count her earnings. Any slight deficit ismet with mental abuse. "If you try to run away, I will bring your familyhere," this threat is also memorized by Marzina. Roksana bows her head andlistens to everything. She knows that her silence, her patience, will protecther family. She is now completely imprisoned in a moral and spiritual prison.

​Thedebt trap created by Mojibur the pimp is now even stronger and invisible. AfterAhsan Ali's departure, Mojibur comes to Roksana again with his account book."Look, Roksana," Mojibur says with a smile, "you lost a fewcustomers because of that truck driver. Who will compensate for that loss? Yourdebt has increased further." He increases the amount of the debt, showingthe cost of food, the burden of accommodation, and the cost of new clothes(which are essential for the brothel). This was the most ruthless example of'Debt Bondage.' Roksana understands that it is impossible for her to repay thisdebt one day. There is no release for her from this cycle.

​This financialslavery arouses an intense, deep anger in Porinita's mind, which she hidesbehind her silence. Her childhood dream was a peaceful, clear life. Now thatdream is entangled in the poisonous net of poverty and trafficking. She nowbegins to see every moment of her life as a self-sacrifice for her family. Thebelief that the money she sends will keep her parents and younger sister Deeptiaway from the black cloud of poverty is what keeps her alive. She believes thatshe might be in hell, but the people she loves will be in heaven. Thismentality turns her into the heroine of a higher tragedy.

​Whenshe is alone, she whispers the words in her mind in the Chakma language,Changma Haudha. She chants Pali mantras, remembering the Three Jewels—Buddha,Dhamma, Sangha. These mantras are what keep her soul alive. No matter howpolluted the Roksana on the outside is, the Porinita inside is still pure. Hermind is as clear as a hill river, which is only covered by the layer on herbody. This dual life is the eternal symbol of her mental struggle. She cannotdeny Mojibur's account book, but she has not sold the freedom of her soul toanyone.

​Toescape the filth of her present, Porinita's mind repeatedly seeks refuge in herlost childhood—in the memory of the hill wind of Kutukchhari, Rangamati. Thatwind was pure and gentle, mixed with the soft murmur of bamboo groves. She feltthat the air of Kutukchhari was as sacred as the calm message of Banabhante atthe foot of the Rajban Vihara. On the other hand, the air of Daulatdia isconfined, humid, and has a commercial odor—the salty, bitter taste of sweat,the ashen, melancholy memory of smoke, and the forbidden, painful touch ofunknown bodies. The difference between these two atmospheres was infinite,which highlights the two extreme realities of Porinita's life.

​Herreminiscence is the opposite of her present: a silence that devours her lostidentity and soul. She feels that she has now merged with the smell ofDaulatdia, where her real identity is extinct. The reader immediately becomesaware of her pain and her self-defense strategy—exile into memory. When shecloses her eyes, she sees the bluish water droplets of Kaptai Lake, dancing inthe golden dream of the sun. She hears the words of the revered Sadhanananda MahasthabirBanabhante in the ancient, sacred shadow of the Rajban Vihara. These memoriesare not just scenes from the past to her, but the last refuge of her soul.

​But assoon as she opens her eyes, reality hits her ruthlessly. The damp smell of theconfined cubicle of Daulatdia pulls her back to the life named Roksana. Thismental struggle slowly weakens her, but the Porinita inside her fights on. Sheknows that these memories are her identity, which Marzina Begum or Mojibur cannever take away. Her mind is divided into two worlds—one in the peace of thehills, the other in the darkness of the city. This duality turns her into atragic heroine who is submerged in a sea of intense pain behind her silence.

​Porinitaregularly sent money to her family, although that money was earned at the costof her own blood and sweat. She never wrote a direct letter, only sent a noteof one or two lines with the money. These notes were her silent letters. Shewrote, "Mother and Father, don't worry. I am well. The work at the parloris going very well. May Deepti's studies not suffer." These lies were thegreatest proof of her love. She knew that if she wrote the truth, her parentswould suffer and blame themselves. She was now the silent economic pillar oftheir family.

​Porinitawrites a special letter for her younger sister Deepti—although it was neversent. She keeps it hidden deep in her heart. The letter read: "My Deepti,study with all your heart. I dream of a family life for you, which I could notfulfill. Remember, always uphold the honor of our Chakma tradition. Neverforget the words of Banabhante." This letter was Porinita's last wish, thelast song of her silent love. She wanted to see her own 'strong desire for afamily life' fulfilled in Deepti's future.

​Porinita'sdeath will see her silence live on as an inheritance of self-sacrifice. Hersacrifice changed Ahsan's life and brightened Deepti's future. Her silence isnow the ultimate, immortal expression of her love.

Dawn Across the Lake

​Goldenrays of the sun were floating on the Kaptai Lake water like silent, sleepingbutterflies. The shadow of the hills on the water seemed to have descended tohide its own sorrow—green, yet eternally melancholy. There is a small villageon the bank of this lake, named Rongachhari. It is the birthplace of Soralota(Simplicity)—a girl in whose eyes the illusion of the hills and the shadow ofstarvation resided together.

​Soralota'sfather, Rojob Ali, was a woodcutter. Every day, breaking the morning mist, hewould go to the hills with an old saw on his shoulder. On his return, his bodywould carry the smell of trees, the salty sap of sweat, and a heap ofexhaustion. In the family were two daughters—Soralota and her younger sister,Parul. Their mother had died earlier of a fever, leaving behind a tatteredsaree and some unfinished lullabies.

​Whenspring came to the hills, Soralota would sit by the lake and sing. There was astrange melancholy in her voice—a melody born from the splitting heart of thehills. People would say, "This girl will go to the city one day, sing, andbecome famous." But the city was a mirage beyond her reach—visible acrossthe lake, but unreachable.

​Oneday, a new teacher arrived at the school—Nirban. He was from Dhaka but came tothe hills to teach. On his first day, he noticed a girl in the class staringout the window, her hair flying in the wind, but a deep question seemed to behidden in her eyes.

​"Whatis your name?"

​"Soralota,"came the gentle reply.

​"Whatare you looking at outside the window?"

​Thegirl paused slightly and said, "That lake. I wonder what is acrossit."

​Nirbansmiled. But something trembled beneath his smile—as if that question was notjust about the lake but also a call to search for something beyond life.

​Dayswent by. Soralota became the most attentive student in Nirban's class. Whereothers stumbled in math, she found the rhythm of patience. Nirban wouldsometimes look at her and wonder—where did this hill girl get such deepunderstanding? She seemed to know how to find a ray of light even withinsorrow.

​Oneafternoon, after school, Soralota was sitting by the lake. In her hand was anotebook with songs she had written. Nirban came and sat beside her.

​"Doyou write songs?"

​Soralotasmiled, "Not songs, I write dreams. When it hurts, water falls from mypen."

​Nirbansaid nothing. He only understood that this girl lives through words, just as ariver finds its way through rocks.

​Butthat same year, Rojob Ali had an accident. He was crushed under a tree whilebringing wood from the hill. He died a few days later. The burden of the familyfell on the shoulders of sixteen-year-old Soralota. Parul was still small,crying with hunger; there was no rice in the house, no fire, only the smell ofgrief.

​Nirbancame after hearing the news. Soralota was sitting beside her father's corpse,her eyes dry, no cry on her face—only silence. Nirban said with a tremblingvoice,

​"Cry,Soralota. It will make you feel a little lighter if you cry."

 ​The girl shook her head, "IfI cry, it will rain on the hills, Sir, the river will swell, the house willflood. I cannot cry."

 ​In that moment, somethingchanged inside Nirban's heart. A deep compassion was born—not for a student,but for a human being—a kind of silent love that does not come in words butresides in the soul.

 ​Days passed. Soralota no longerwent to school. She worked in other people's houses in the market, and in theevening, she would sit by the lake, holding Parul on her lap. Nirban oftenwatched from a distance but could not say anything. His teaching profession,morality, and the eyes of society—all together formed an invisible wall.

 ​One night, there was heavyrainfall. The hills were trembling with the sound of thunder. Nirban suddenlyheard someone knocking at the door. He opened the door and saw Soralotastanding, shivering in wet clothes.

​"Sir,Parul has a fever... I couldn't buy medicine..."

​Nirbanimmediately gave her money from inside the house and handed her Paracetamol forthe fever. But in the light of the lightning flash, he saw—in the girl's eyeswas not fear, but a strange silence, as if all the weariness of the world hadaccumulated there.

​"Youare soaked, come inside."

​Soralotashook her head, "No, Sir. People will talk if I go inside. I only came forhelp, not for shelter."

​Thenshe left into the storm.

​Nirbanstood by the door for a long time. The light of the lightning flashed over thelake, and he understood—this hill, this lake, this girl—all were a boundary inhis life that could not be crossed, but also could not be forgotten.

​At theend of the night, Nirban wrote in his notebook—

​"Humansilence is the greatest language; like the hill, motionless but profound."

​AndSoralota, sitting in her small room, wrote in the light of an earthen lamp—

​"Ifthe dream is across the lake, I won't know how to swim, yet I will go. Becauseif I don't go, the mind will die."

​Theroar of the storm had not yet stopped in the night sky. The reflection of thelightning danced on the lake water like dead fire. The streams of waterdescending from the heart of the hill soaked the village, and Nirban sat by thewindow, contemplating the speechlessness gathered in the wet strands of agirl's hair.

​Hisopen notebook was on the table, next to the dripping light of a candle.Outside, the wind roared like a dog's cry. But the storm in Nirban's heart wasstronger than the outer storm.

​He wasa teacher—a simple teacher in the village school, who taught math and Bengali.But tonight, he questioned himself—"Does being a teacher mean beingconfined only within the school? If I don't light a lamp in a girl's life'sdarkness, what good is education?"

​Theface of Soralota flashed before his eyes repeatedly—rain-soaked, exhausted, yetunwavering. "I came for help, not for shelter"—this sentence echoedconstantly in his brain. What infinite self-respect, what silent determination!Within that silence, he felt a different kind of glow—something that cannot betaught in any school.

​Nirbanslowly closed the notebook and stood up. He opened the old wooden cupboard nextto the door and saw some books, some money, and an old watch—a memory given byhis mother. He held the watch in his hand and looked at it for a long time.Time seemed to have stopped. Then he slowly said,

​"IfI am truly a man, I must not fear anyone."

​Thesound of the storm outside grew louder. Nirban opened the door and stepped out.The air was cold. Crossing the mud, he ran towards the village—where littleParul was shivering with fever, and Soralota was surely sitting, holding thatearthen lamp close to her chest.

​Thehilly road was wet and slippery then. Water beneath his feet, the tears oftrees falling from above. Nirban moved forward, an unknown determinationtrembling in his heart. He did not know the outcome of this journey, but heknew—something would change forever tonight.

​Reachingthe house, he heard the sound of coughing. Soralota opened the door when heknocked—surprise in her eyes.

​"Sir...you here?"

​"Howis your sister?"

​"Thefever hasn't gone yet. I don't have money to see a doctor."

​Nirbanwent inside. The room was filled with the smell of kerosene, wet clothes, andthe damp smell of earth. Parul was lying quietly, her lips dry. Nirban put hishand on her forehead—a high fever.

​"Thisfever is very bad. I will take her to the city tomorrow."

​Soralotawas stunned, "To the city? But Sir, we have nothing."

​"Youhave nothing, but I have something—responsibility."

​Soralotaremained silent. There was a certainty in Nirban's voice that she had neverheard before. That night, the storm did not stop, but a silent peace descendedinside the house—as if a small lamp of humanity’s light was lit in thatdarkness.

​Nirbantook out medicine from his bag and gave it. Then he sat by the earth and said,

​"Soralota,don't be afraid. Tomorrow morning, I will tell the headmaster—we have to takehelp from the school fund. I will also give money. I want your sister to live,and for you to start studying again."

​Thegirl was speechless for a while. Then she whispered,

​"Sir,why are you doing so much? I am just a poor girl."

​Nirbansmiled gently and said,

​"BecauseI know that the greatest strength is hidden inside the hill that stands bearingso much sorrow. You are the child of that hill."

​Afterthese words, Soralota became silent. She only looked out the window—the rainwas still falling, but within that rain, a piece of new dawn seemed to beawakening.

​Whenthe night deepened, Nirban got up. Before leaving, he looked at Soralota andsaid,

​"Yourname is Soralota—meaning simplicity/unadornedness. One day you will truly becomplete, but many storms will come on that path. But if you hold onto yoursilence, no storm can break you."

​Heleft through the rain. Soralota watched through the crack in the door as Nirban'sfigure blurred and faded into the mist. An unknown emotion welled up in herheart—was it gratitude, or something else? She did not know.

​Beforethe sun rose the next morning, dew had settled by the lake. In Nirban's room,the notebook was open, with one line written in it—

​"Ifcompassion for human beings is a sin, then I will hold that sin to my heartlike a prayer."

​Andfrom that day on, Nirban made a pledge—

​"Iwill build a school for the girls of this hill, where poverty will not be abarrier."

​He didnot know that this pledge would one day lead his life down a path from whichthere would be no return.

​Therain has stopped for many days. New greenery has sprung up on the body of thehill, and the water of Kaptai Lake has become clear like a child's eye. Buteven within that clarity, an invisible roar is hidden—as if nature itself issilently preparing for something.

​Nirbannow wakes up early and walks the hill paths. A notebook is in his hand, with adesign—the plan for a new school. The school will be for the village girls, sothat no other Soralota is lost in the darkness. He has named it:"Alokotoru Vidya Niketan" (Light-Tree Education Center).

​Hecuts wooden posts himself, measures the land, and calls the village boys,saying,

​"Ifthere is sweat in your hands, you can change the hill."

​Theyoung men smile; some are doubtful, and some are charmed—a city teacher who willbuild a school in the hills is almost a miracle to them.

​Soralotacomes every morning and sits quietly by the construction site. She wears asimple blue cloth, a pitcher full of water in her hand, but a strange glow inher eyes. Nirban sees her and says,

​"Whyhaven't you started studying yet?"

​"Parulis much better now, Sir. But I don't feel like going to my own school."

​"Thencome to this school—this school is for you."

​Soralotagently smiles and says, "Then will I be the first student of this school?"

​Nirbanreplies, "No, you will be the soul of this school."

​Sincethen, Soralota has helped Nirban every afternoon. Someone brings bricks,someone digs the earth—she gives water, delivers food to the workers, sometimessits quietly and watches how the walls of the dream are slowly standing up.

​Oneafternoon, the sunlight from the hill peak fell exactly upon the heart of thelake—at that moment, the roof of the school's first room was finished. Nirbansilently looked up at the sky, then slowly said,

​"Look,Soralota—this light is our first dawn."

​Soralotabowed her head. Tears came to her eyes, but they were tears of joy. All theyears of pain, insult, and hunger—everything seemed to find meaning in this onemoment.

​Whennight fell, Nirban opened his notebook in his small room and wrote—

​"Dreamsare not born only in the city; sometimes a small bud pushes its head throughthe heart of the hill, and that bud becomes the forest of the future."

​Butthere were many obstacles on the way to growing that forest. Some influentialpeople in the village were unhappy. They said,

​"Aschool for girls? What's the benefit of that? Girls will work at home; whatwill they do with reading?"

​Nirbansaid in a calm voice,

​"Thenation that keeps its daughters in darkness, the future of that nation is alsosubmerged in darkness."

​Somepeople fell silent at this, while others cursed. But Nirban did not stop. Heknew that if a single drop of light could be planted in the soil of this hill,one day it would take root and bloom.

​Soralotabecame the silent companion of that struggle. Sometimes at night, she wouldstand by the school and stroke the new walls, saying,

​"Father,are you in the sky? Look, your daughter is planting a tree now—a tree oflight."

​Oneday, Nirban asked her,

​"Doyou know, Soralota, what is the greatest penance in this world?"

​Thegirl remained silent.

​"Itis to turn one's own sorrow into work," he said. "The one who knowshow to cry also knows how to sing. And the one who has lost also knows how to give."

​Fromthat day on, Soralota became a new person. Work in the field in the morning,studying in the afternoon, singing at night. Her voice now carried not justsadness but also the tune of hope. Nirban listened from a distance andfelt—this girl's life is a novel, where a new light is born after every sorrow.

​Oneday, the first class of the school began. Three girls, two boys, and Nirbanstanding in front. A strange glow in his eyes, a deep affection in his voice.

​"Fromtoday, you will start learning—not letters, but life."

​Soralotawas sitting on the bench that day, a book in her hand, light in her eyes. Shefelt as if she had come to a new world—where there was hunger, but hope wasgreater than that.

​In theevening, as the sun set by the lake, Nirban said,

​"Doyou know, Soralota, this morning is not just of the hill, but of the one insideus too."

​Soralotasaid in a gentle voice,

​"Thena new dawn begins on this hill from today, Sir."

​Nirbanreplied with a smile,

​"Yes,but every dawn is followed by a new test. Our penance begins now."

​Thebirds were calling strangely on the hill that day—as if nature was also bearingwitness to this silent pledge.

​It wasautumn in the hills. The sky was blue, the lake water clear like glass, but theair carried the scent of an unknown fear. The walls of the school,"Alokotoru Vidya Niketan," were now almost complete, but in the eyesof some people in the village, those walls were a symbol of crime.

​Onemorning, Nirban arrived at the school and saw that someone had written on thewall with charcoal at night—

 ​"Teacher, close yourschool. Don't ruin our girls."

 ​He said nothing. He calmly wet ahandkerchief and wiped away the writing. Soralota stood beside him, tears inher eyes.

 ​"Sir, why do they dothis?"

 ​Nirban smiled gently,"Light feels like burning to those who do not understand light."

 ​Soralota was silent for a while.Then she said in a gentle voice, "Then are we making a mistake?"

 ​"No," Nirban said,"the darkness fears us because we are doing the right thing."

 ​From that day on, a strangetension accumulated around the school. Some people started spreading rumorsagainst Nirban—saying, "The teacher is misleading the girls, he will takethem to the city." The fire of the rumors spread slowly.

 ​Soralota understood that thisfire was born not only from words but also from the deep fear in people'shearts—fear of the unknown, fear of change.

​Oneevening, Nirban was sitting alone by the lake. The sun was setting; birds werereturning to their nests. Soralota was standing across the water. A strangemixed expression was on her face—fear, respect, and silent compassion.

 ​"Sir," she called out,"if you leave, what will happen to this school?"

 ​Nirban slowly said, "If Ileave, the light will lessen for a while, but if you hold onto the light, thedarkness will never be able to return."

 ​Soralota looked down and said,"Then I will hold onto the light, Sir."

 ​There was such determination inher sentence that a slight tremor went through Nirban's heart. Heunderstood—this girl was no longer just a student; now she was a symbol of thishill, a silent protest of humanity against darkness.

 ​That very night, danger came.

 ​Some people from the village,intoxicated, broke into the school and vandalized it. Walls cracked, tableswere overturned, books were torn.

 ​Nirban rushed over after hearingthe news. Flashes of fire all around, the shadows of the trees trembling.

 ​He shouted,

 ​"Stop! What are you doing?This is a children's shelter, not a battlefield!"

 ​But the agitated crowd did notlisten to anyone. Someone stepped forward and said in a loud voice,

 ​"You are a city person, youcome here and break our rules. You are putting on a show with the girls!"

 ​A slap landed on Nirban's face.

 ​Soralota rushed forward andsaid, "They are lying! Sir has done nothing wrong!"

 ​But the crowd did not listen toher words. In the voice of the darkness, there was only the roar of violence.

 ​Finally, some good people cameand stopped the chaos. The fire was put out, but by then, a part of the schoolwas burned down. Nirban was injured; Soralota was sitting beside him,crying—the girl who had been silent for so long, today her heartbroken cry madethe hill tremble.

 ​When dawn broke, Nirban slowlyopened his eyes. Soralota had tucked a cloth under his head, with redexhaustion in her eyes.

 ​"Are you all right?"she asked.

 ​"I am," Nirban smiledgently, "because you are still here."

​Thenhe slowly said,

 ​"No one can ever completelyburn the light, Soralota. Fire only makes ashes, but there is still fuelbeneath the ashes."

 ​Soralota then said in a firmvoice,

 ​"Then we will start again,Sir. New bricks, new books, new dawn."

 ​Nirban looked into the girl'seyes. There was no childish fear there—only the pledge of light.

 ​From that day on, the two ofthem started a new penance. No one helped; rather, many laughed. But everymorning, they dug the earth, carried wood, and started building the schoolagain. New books in the children's hands, a new song in Soralota's voice.

​Oneday, Nirban said,

 ​"Soralota, do you know? Theborder between light and darkness is not outside—it is inside us. The one whocan conquer the darkness within themselves is the one who truly lives in thelight."

 ​Soralota said,

 ​"Then I will become thelight, Sir. Because I have seen a lot of darkness."

 ​Nirban looked at her and smiled,

 ​"You are the lightalready."

 ​Night descended. The moon roseover the distant hill peak—grey, yet calm. The reflection of that moon floatedin the lake water, just like the reflection of life—light and darkness mixedtogether in it.

 ​Nirban stood by the window,watching that scene. He felt that human life was also like this lake—the lightis never fully present, nor does the darkness fully go away. But as long assomeone walks toward the shore, hope remains alive.

 ​Soralota was sitting by thelake, writing—

 ​"Life means searching forlight, even when the light is not visible."

 ​That very night, the two ofthem, teacher and student, made an unexpressed pledge, looking at the hills—

 ​No matter how much darknesscomes, they will not abandon this path of light.

 ​The lake water was a strangeblue that day. As if someone had torn off the blue of the sky and poured itinto the lap of the hill. Light mist in the air, the shadow of the sun on thedistant pine branches sparkling. But even within this calm nature, a strangeexcitement was in Nirban's mind today—a new beginning, a new horizon beckoning.

​Thebroken walls of the school were now built up again; children had returned.Soralota teaches the children a song every morning—

 ​"Light a lamp, light a lampin the heart..."

 ​The heart of the Kaptai hilltrembled with the tune of the song.

 ​Nirban often watches from adistance. Pride, illusion, and a heap of compassion in his eyes. He understandsthat this girl is no longer the same—she is now the name of a symbol, the echoof a silent revolution.

 ​One morning, a group of guestscame to the school yard—journalists and NGO workers from the city. They hadheard that a young teacher in the hills was single-handedly building aneducation movement. Nirban welcomed them warmly, but his face was filled withhis usual modesty.

 ​A journalist asked,

 ​"You are from the city, whydid you stay in this remote hill?"

 ​Nirban smiled and said,

 ​"Because there are morepeople in the city, but less humanity. I have come here to find thathumanity."

 ​Soralota was silent afterhearing that, but a new fire seemed to ignite in her mind—she understood thatthis man was not just a teacher, but a moving ideal.

 ​But new light means new tests.

 ​When the news was published,some people became angry again. They said, "He is now making money byjoining hands with foreigners, selling the hill!"

 ​The rumors reached Nirban's ears,but he remained silent. He knew that people's suspicion was his greatest enemy.

 ​One afternoon, Soralota came andsaid,

 ​"Sir, if something happensto you, I will run this school. I will teach, I will protect thechildren."

 ​Nirban looked at her and said,

 ​"You can do it, Soralota.When a new horizon comes across the river, someone has to stay on the old bankto keep the light burning."

 ​"Across the river?"Soralota asked in surprise.

 ​"Yes," Nirban said,"the river of our life is also like that—on one side is sorrow, on theother is the shore of hope. We all journey towards that shore; some reach it,some are lost."

​Soralotasilently swallowed his words. A silent tide was rising in her eyes, whichNirban understood but said nothing.

 ​Winter began to set in. Onemorning, the mist was thick on the lake water. Soralota came to school and sawNirban was not there. She found out that he had gone across the river in a boatvery early that morning—to a new village there, where children had never even heardthe name of a school.

 ​She rushed to the lakesideanxiously. The shadow of the boat was almost invisible, lost in the mist.

 ​"Sir!"—her voicefloated in the wind, but whether it reached across the water, no one knows.

 ​In that moment, Soralota understood—somejourneys in life have to be made alone. Nirban might never return, but hislight, his education, his kindness would remain on this hill, in this school,in the blue water of this lake.

 ​In the afternoon, she wassitting with the children, taking class. Suddenly a child asked,

 ​"Sister, where isSir?"

 ​Soralota smiled gently and said,

 ​"Sir is now setting up anew school across the river. We will send light there from here."

 ​"Will they listen tous?"

 ​"They will listen,"Soralota said, "because the light never stops."

 ​That evening, a strange peacedescended on the hill. The sun was setting in the lake water, but it seemed asif it was creating some new dawn even as it sank.

 ​Soralota stood silently then.The light touch of the wind in her hair, fearless glow in her eyes. Sheknows—Nirban might have gone far away, but his path is still here.

 ​Night descended.

 ​The reflection of that schoolfloated on the lake water in the moonlight.

 ​Soralota stood by the window andsaid to herself,

 ​"Sir used to say, lightcomes from across the river.

 Today I understood,light is actually born from within."

 ​A soft smile appeared on herlips.

 ​The scent of a new morning wasthen descending over the hill—

 A new horizon,

 Across which Nirbanmay not be,

But his dream is,

 His faith is,

 The immortal lightof his silent love that he left behind.

 ​The lake mist now seemed tospeak. Every dawn, when the first light of the sun poured through the heart ofthe hill, it felt as if Nirban was still here. His shadow was mixed in the air,his footprints hidden in the smell of the wet earth.

 ​Soralota is no longer the girlshe was before.

 ​A steady glow is in her eyes,calm yet firm on her face.

 ​She is now the Head Teacher of"Alokotoru Vidya Niketan." But this title is not a source of pridefor her—it is a responsibility, a penance, which she is carrying out in thelight left behind by Nirban.

 ​More children now come toschool. Some walk, some come by boat, touching the banks of the hill.

 ​Smiles on their faces, books intheir hands, questions in their eyes—

 ​"Will Sir return?"

 ​Soralota says every time,"He has returned—inside us."

 ​One afternoon, after class,Soralota was sitting by the lake. The air carried the fragrance of pine trees,the sun was setting in the west.

 ​She looked into the distance andsaid to herself—

 ​"Sir, you said the lightwas across the river. I now understand—the light is not from one place; thelight is born in the heart of humanity."

 ​Suddenly a voice came frombehind,

 ​"Sister, have you heard?Nirban Sir has started a new school in another village!"

 ​Soralota looked in surprise,"What are you saying?"

 ​"Yes, I saw itmyself," the boy said, "a small house is being built across theriver, and children are studying there. Everyone says a city teacher has cometo teach—Sir is said to be Nirban, like his name."

 ​Soralota's heart trembled. Shewas silent for a while, then an unknown light shone in her eyes.

 ​"You know," she saidgently, "sometimes God makes people lose, but he does not let their workbe lost."

​Fromthe next day on, Soralota started new work—

 ​She began to gather people fromvillage to village, explaining to mothers that education is not just aboutlearning letters, but the liberation of the soul.

 ​The villagers who once scornedher now want their children to go to school.

 ​She started a kind of silentrevolution on the heart of the hill.

 ​People said, "This girl islike fire, but the fire does not burn—it gives light."

 ​One night, after the rain,Soralota was sitting by the window of her house. The hill peak was illuminatedby the light of lightning outside.

 ​Suddenly, Nirban's words came tomind—

 ​"The border between lightand darkness is within a human being."

 ​She closed her eyes andsaw—Nirban's face, his calm smile, the firmness in his voice.

 ​"Sir," she whispered,"I hear the echo of the humanity you taught every day. You are far away,yet you are everywhere."

 ​The rain began to fall lightly.The heart of the hill became wet. Soralota said to herself,

 ​"I will spread your dreamschool across the country. Where there is darkness, I will go. With yourlight."

​Daysturned into months.

​Oneafternoon, a university professor came to the hill from the city. He camelooking for Nirban.

​"Iheard he used to teach here once."

​Soralotasaid, "Yes, but now he is on the other side, across the river."

​Theprofessor paused and asked, "Do you know if he will return?"

​Soralotasmiled and said,

​"Whatdoes returning mean? He never left."

​Theprofessor became silent at her words.

​Noexplanation was needed.

​Atnight, Soralota came to the lake again. The moon had risen; its light made thelake water silvery.

​Somewhereacross the river, a small lamp was burning—

Perhaps Nirban was really there, perhaps not.

But his light was definitely reaching this shore, waveafter wave.

​Soralotathen said to herself in a soft voice—

​"Thelight of humanity is not bound to a person.

Nirban was not just a teacher—he was an echo.

 An echo that, nomatter how far it goes, returns to the human heart."

​Thatnight, she dreamt—Nirban was standing on the hill peak, with his hands raised,saying,

 ​"Soralota, you are now theshore of light. Wherever you go, people will start dreaming of humanity."

 ​Soralota woke up at dawn, a calmsmile on her face.

 ​The children were playing in theschool yard then. She went and told them,

 ​"Today we will learn a newsong—for those who are lighting lamps across the river."

 ​The children started singingtogether—

 ​"Be human among humans,live with love,

 The light that goesout, light that light again..."

 ​The echo of that song rose onthe hill—

 As if Nirban's voicereturned from the sky,

 As if that eternalecho of humanity spread again,

 From across theriver

 To the heart of thehill.

 ​It was the late afternoon ofautumn. The soft light scattered on the lake water, the earthy smell of dryleaves in the air.

 ​The children of "AlokotoruVidya Niketan" were playing in the yard; the sound of laughter echoed inthe hills.

 ​Soralota was sitting alone atthe old wooden table where Nirban used to teach. On the table now were only abunch of old books, a few dried flowers, and a dust-covered envelope—on thecorner of which was written,

 ​"For Soralota."

 ​Her hand trembled.

 ​She had never seen this envelopebefore.

​Someoneseemed to have just placed it there, perhaps sent by someone.

 ​It felt—this letter had arrivedtoday, tearing through the heart of time, from the hand of the man who neverleft, even after going away.

 ​Soralota slowly opened theenvelope. The paper was yellowed, the ink slightly faded, but the letters wereclear—

 Nirban's familiarcalm, restrained handwriting.

 ​"Soralota,

 If this letter everreaches your hands, know that I am far away, but I am close to you.

 I know you are nowcarrying my school, my dream, my unfinished love—everything on your shoulders.

 You cannot bethanked, because you are the person who is beyond thanks.

 The path I amtraveling is unknown. Across the river, I have seen the same light in the eyesof another group of children.

 But do you know,every time the light shines in their eyes, I see your face—your fearless gaze,your unwavering faith.

 Do you know,Soralota?

 A human being isactually two rivers.

 In one river flowslove, in the other, responsibility.

 Most people cannotreach the confluence of these two rivers.

 You can—because youhave kept no wall between love and responsibility.

 I know my leavinghas hurt you.

 But never think I amlost.

 I am present—in thelaughter of the children you teach, in the song you sing, in the light of youreducation.

 I am present in yoursilent prayer,

 Where words stop,but feeling lives on.

 If you ever feelalone,

 Look at the lakewater at night—

 You will see thetouch of my hand in every wave,

 My eye-light inevery reflection of the moon.

 Soralota,

 You are myunfinished poem.

 You are the echothat has mingled with the hills.

 I do not know if we willmeet, but if this life ends, I wish in the next life—

 You remain mystudent,

 So that I can findthe new meaning of humanity in your eyes again.

 Be well,

Keep the light burning.

 Not for me, but forthe world.

 Your teacher,

 Nirban"

 ​Soralota sat in silence afterreading the letter. A strange silence seemed to descend all around. The windstopped; the birds were silent too.

 ​Two drops of tears fell from hereyes—

 But they were nottears of sorrow; they were tears of finding shelter.

 ​She held the letter to herchest, closed her eyes. It felt as if Nirban was standing right in front ofher—with his familiar smile, saying,

 "You have heldonto the light, Soralota."

 ​Soralota spent that night at theschool. The lake water outside the window was calm.

 ​In the moonlight, she read theletter again and again; every letter seemed to glow.

 ​She felt that Nirban's voice wasmixed in the wind, saying—

 "I never leftyou."

 ​At dawn, she got up and went tothe school field. The children were sleeping then; the surroundings weresilent.

 ​She placed the letter under astone—making a small altar.

 ​Then she lit a candle on theearth.

 ​"Sir," she whispered,

 "If this lightgoes out, I will light it again.

 Your light willnever go out."

 ​From that day on,"Alokotoru" became not just a school but a center of faith.

​Peoplefrom various parts of the country started coming, some to see, some to learn.

 ​Soralota would smile and say,

 ​"We have a teacher, even ifyou cannot see him.

 He is present in thelight of every child's eyes."

 ​One foreign journalist asked oneday,

 ​"Why are you so firm?"

 ​Soralota replied with a gentlesmile,

 ​"Because I received lovefrom a person who erased himself to illuminate others.

 This is the truth ofhumanity."

 ​At night, when the school wassilent, Soralota would sit by the window and read the letter again.

 ​Every time she read it, she feltshe was coming back to life anew.

 ​The moon floated on the lakewater then.

 ​A gentle tune of a flutesomewhere far away—

 It felt as if Nirbanhad returned,

 But this time, notas a voice,

 But as light.

 ​The lake water is silent eventoday, but within this silence, a deep music seems to be playing—invisible, yetinevitable.

 ​The last sun of autumn isfalling on the body of the hill; shadows lie in the dense greenery of the pineforest far away.

 ​Soralota is standing by thewindow. In her hand is that letter—Nirban's last letter, which is now thedirection of her life.

 ​Many months have passed sincethat day.

 ​No one has seen Nirban again; noone knows if he truly started a new school across the river.

 ​But every morning, when thechildren sing, a strange ray of light descends over the lake—

 A light that is notthe sun's; it feels like the echo of someone's soul.

 ​Soralota first thought it was acoincidence.

 ​But as days went by, sheunderstood—this light is Nirban's light, which did not go out but wastransformed.

 ​One dawn, when the mist wasstill hanging over the lake, Soralota woke up and heard—

 Someone far away wassinging that old song softly, the one Nirban used to teach—

 "Light a lamp,light a lamp in the heart..."

 ​She quickly went outside, but noone was there. Only the lake water was swaying in the light breeze.

 ​Yet the last tune of the songseemed to remain in the air, fading into the heart of the hill.

 ​Soralota understood—peopleleave, but the light they create never dies.

 ​She has become a part of thatlight, and Nirban is now transformed into the sky within her.

 ​Days went by, months passed.

 ​One day, an elderly villagercame to the school. A rough voice in his throat, a sparkling light in his eyes.

 ​He said, "I have come fromacross the river. There was a teacher in a team of foreign doctors there, whocalled himself **Nirban.** He taught the children and served the sick. One day,he was lost in a boat accident while crossing the river. But since then, alight has been seen over the lake every evening."

 ​The old man's voice trembled.

 ​"People say it's not hissoul, but the reflection of his love."

 ​A tremor went through Soralota'sheart.

 ​Her eyes welled up, but a softsmile appeared on her lips.

 ​"No," she said,"that is not a soul, that is light. A person who lives like light cannotbe drowned in darkness."

 ​That night, a storm came to thehill. The wind was roaring, the lake water was turbulent.

 ​Soralota was standing by thewindow, watching that chaos.

 ​But at that very moment, a lineof intense light shot up across the river, far away—

 Tearing through theclouds, touching the heart of the hill, it stopped right in the school yard.

 ​The children woke up, shouting,

 ​"Sister, look! The lighthas descended!"

 ​Soralota slowly went outside.The smell of earth in the wind, the glare of that light in her eyes.

 ​A voice seemed to be playinginside her heart—

​"Youhave held onto the light, Soralota."

 ​Wet earth beneath her feet,countless stars above her head.

 ​She reached out to touch thatlight—and right then, a warm touch landed on her finger.

 ​She knows this is not a humanbeing.

 ​This is the Nirban who hasreturned as light.

 ​Her eyes became wet, but therewas no pain in them.

 ​There was peace, a deepself-satisfaction.

 ​She closed her eyes and said,

 ​"Sir, you have returned...but this time, I will not see you with my eyes—I will see you in the smile ofevery child."

 ​When the storm stopped, it wasseen that the light was still burning on the school roof.

 ​It was not an electric light—noone knows where it came from.

 ​But from that day on, everynight, at the exact same time, that light glows.

 ​The villagers say,

 ​"That is the lamp of NirbanSir's soul, who lit the light of humanity on the hill."

 ​Soralota prays every day,looking at that light—

 ​"Oh, Nirban, may your lightnever go out.

 The light you havelit, I will keep it alive from generation to generation."

 ​Years passed.

 ​Soralota is now elderly, withsilver strands in her hair, yet the glow of that light is in her eyes.

 ​The children have grown up now;some are teachers, some are doctors, and some have opened new schools in theirown villages.

 ​Everyone says, "We areNirban Sir's students, but our first teacher is Soralota Sister."

 ​One night, after a long time,Soralota came to the lakeside again.

 ​The fragrance of flowers in theair, a full moon in the sky.

 ​She slowly said,

 ​"Sir, I now understand—

 Humanity means you,

Love means the light you left behind."

 ​Right then, that familiar lightdescended on the lake water—

 Nirban's light, noweven softer, even gentler.

 ​She smiled, closed her eyes, andsilently said,

 ​"I am coming, Sir. To youas light."

 ​The wind blew over the hill in asoft tune.

 ​Birds flew away towards theeastern sky far away.

 ​And two rays of light werereflected in the lake water—

 One of Nirban, theother of Soralota—

 Which slowly mergedtogether into the eternal blue.

 ​Silence now reigns over theheart of the hill.

 ​The moonlight glitters on theKaptai Lake water, as if an invisible hand is touching that light repeatedly.

 ​Soralota is no more today.

 ​But her touch, her smile, hervoice—everything has mingled with this nature, with the air of this hill.

 ​The name of the school is now"Alokotoru International School."

 ​Where once children learnedmixed with the scent of jasmine flowers in a raw tin house,

 Today, there is atwo-story stone building, solar panels on the roof, colorful swings in thefield, and an inscription carved on the wall—

 "Service tohumanity is worship of God." — Nirban Ghosh

 "Light a lamp,light a lamp in the heart." — Soralota Devi

 ​These two sentences are the coremantra of "Alokotoru" today.

 ​The children recite these twolines before prayer every day, as if they light an inherent lamp within theirhearts.

 ​After Soralota's death, hermemorial items were preserved by the villagers.

 ​They have now turned her smallhut into a "Museum of Humanity."

 Inside are Nirban'slast letter, that old bamboo notebook,

 And an earthenlamp—which still glows every evening, as if the hill knows,

"If the light goes out, life also stops."

 ​An old woman in the villagesays,

 ​"Soralota Sister didn'tdie, my child, she became the light."

 ​And a child, who is now in ClassTwo, asks,

 ​"Teacher, how does lightbecome human?"

 ​The old woman smiles gently andsays,

 ​"When someone illuminatesanother's life without thinking of their own happiness, then they become thelight."

 ​Years pass.

 ​"Alokotoru" is now notjust a school—it is a movement.

 ​Its branches have beenestablished in various parts of Bangladesh, even in Nepal, Bhutan, and Myanmar.

 ​A "Humanity Trust" hasbeen established in the names of Nirban and Soralota,

 The purpose of whichis—

 To create a silentrevolution among the hill people through education, service, and peace.

 ​A young teacher, named Rina,says,

 ​"I enrolled in this schoolat the age of five. Today, I teach here myself.

 In my class, I neveraddress anyone as 'Sir' or 'Madam,'

 I say—'We are thelight.' Because Nirban Sir used to say,

 'If you are not thelight, the darkness will not give light.'"

 ​One day, a team of foreignjournalists came to "Alokotoru."

 ​They were astonished—how wassuch an advanced, humane educational institution possible in this remote hill?

 ​They asked,

 ​"Do you receive help fromany major donor organization?"

 ​Rina smiled and replied,

 ​"No, we receive the handsof the hill people, and two names—Nirban and Soralota.

 They are ourconsciousness, our God."

 ​The journalists watched insurprise as

Small children were planting trees with their own hands inthe school ground.

 ​They were planting a plaque atthe base of each tree, on which was written—

 'I will be thelight.'

 ​That night, the light of thefull moon was above the hill.

 ​Children listened to stories onthe school roof.

 ​Rina was saying—

 ​"Many years ago, there wasa man here, Nirban Sir, and there was a woman, Soralota Sister.

 They taught us themeaning of love, the meaning of pain.

 Their love lives onwithin us today."

 ​A child asks,

 ​"Teacher, are they stillalive?"

​Rinalooks up at the sky.

 ​"Yes, they are now thelight.

 Whenever we do gooddeeds, they smile upon us."

 ​The children look up—at thestar-filled sky,

 Two bright starstwinkle side by side.

 ​Rina whispers,

 ​"Look at those two stars...they are Nirban and Soralota."

 ​A light breeze then blows overthe slopes of the hill.

 ​The lake water sways, and thelight of those two stars is reflected within it.

 ​And someone silently says—

 ​"People die, but their lovedoes not die.

 It remains inpeople's work, in people's laughter, in people's light."

 ​At the end of the year, when"Alokotoru" celebrated its 25th anniversary,

 All the people ofthe village held a big festival together.

 ​Children danced, sang—

 "Light a lamp,light a lamp in the heart..."

​Garlandsof light were floated on the lake.

 ​And that night, a strange streakof light shot up on the horizon of the sky—

 As if Nirban andSoralota returned together,

 To see that theirseed has now grown into a towering tree.

 ​In the dead of night, Rina wassitting alone on the roof.

 ​Tears in her eyes, a smile onher lips.

 ​She slowly wrote—

 ​"Nirban Sir, SoralotaSister—

 You both haveproven,

 Love is not justbetween people,

 It is a cosmic lightstream,

 Which flows fromgeneration to generation.

 I promise, I willkeep this light burning—as long as humanity exists."

 ​A gentle light then descended inthe night sky—

 Two rays mettogether, then slowly disappeared.

 ​The hill was silent, but thatfamiliar tune seemed to echo in the wind—

 "Light a lamp,light a lamp in the heart..."

 ​And so, on the highway ofdestiny,

 Nirban andSoralota's silent love took the form of the eternal legacy of humanity.