The days of childhood and adolescence

If my two little eyes are binoculars to capture the dreams of the past, then every moment of my childhood, every day is a very valuable show piece arranged in rows to capture the dreams of the past. If the breathing apparatus inside my chest is the highest warehouse in the world, then there are like sacks of goods arranged in rows, those sweet moments of my childhood.

I can't forget even if I want to. Those days of my childhood are like a vivid picture of an album on the pages of life's memories, walking behind me all the time. Sometimes I am haunted by memories, I am dragged by the earthen curved path, the pea vines, the fields in the yellow mustard flower fields, the small canals of the village - in the water of the lake, the water lilies; Under the mango tree, under the mug of the blackberry tree, under the palm tree wrapped in the foggy moon in the winter morning, near the fresh flavored juice filled with earthen jars.

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The nest of deep peace, the open windows of the south, the rows and rows of betel trees, the cradle made of pieces of my mother's ruined area, the water of the turbulent pond, still wakes me up with my handshake. When I was a child, I grew up in a mud house in a village with a bamboo fence tied to it. When I breathe in the life of the bricks and stones of today's village, when the frustration accumulated deep inside my chest floats in the air, I close my eyes and lie down on the comfortable bed, then the horizon is wide green field, the green sky, the open star of the blue sky, the golden paddy. Sheaf.

It was as if I could hear the melody of the honeyed bamboo flute of the shepherd, the Bhatiali song of the tender voice of the middle. The more I leave my childhood behind, the more I want to adapt to the village life now, the more I go back to my childhood. The days of my childhood and adolescence that I left behind drove me to the path of basic life. I forget the sweet path, the fresh air, the song of birds, the dancing of butterflies in full bloom.

Every moment of childhood, where there is a precious show piece, nothing can be missed, it comes to the pages of memory again and again. Which one do I reminisce about, which one do I draw with a dream brush. Every day of my childhood where I was honeyed and happy, I remember a special day.

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Every moment of childhood is like a laughter conquering the world of a beautiful lascivious woman, even if it is gone, it stays in the heart. Even if a woman is lost, just as the remnants of laughter remain in the depths of the mind, so even if she is shot at a young age, she takes over all the ground of the heart.

The mischievousness of childhood and adolescence and living a life of fear is the flashback life of every human being like me. Those of us who are busy using modern perfumes to get rid of the stench of mud and dust in that small village from our bodies to be modern, can anyone say that we didn't play football with our friends in the backyard by making balls out of straw when we were little? What can we say about not making a bat out of a piece of wood left in the corner of the house and playing with a tennis ball in a small space in the backyard?

Can we say that I did not see the scene of threshing paddy with cows in the backyard at night with Krishan during the Nabanna festival? For those who spent their childhood and adolescence in the village, these scenes of their lives are arranged in the distance of their eyes as an album of precious memories.

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If we take a moment to relax in today's fast paced life, the first image that emerges before our eyes is the image of childhood and adolescence. We don't see the album of memories at the moment with our eyes closed. The scene of a boy running around in the backyard. Going to Maktab in the morning in groups, running randomly before the start of school classes, Gollachut, Kabaddi, Dariabandha, Kanamachhi, Bauchi shooting days. After eating the food after school, football and cricket were played on the field in the afternoon. Never skipping school, fishing with nets. How can I forget all those days of playing prayers by making big holes in Nara's eyebrows, making bamboo funnels with dung and making brick kilns.

How can I forget the days of fishing by jumping out of the small ponds on the south side of the village and swimming in the curved canals? The bad memories of disobedient life still seem to me to run away to that village, not to call all my friends, to run away again in groups as a child.

This is a memoir written by Hossain Sagar. It fits my life. That is why I am sharing with you.

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