arek FALGUN

Stray mango trees line the road leading to the monument. The bistre blooms, pleasing to the eye and to the olfactory senses, have returned. For the umpteenth time.

As the winter breeze brushes against the flowers densely dotted within the green leaves, it loses the melancholic air and transforms into a warm, pleasant euphoria signalling the coming of Falgun. Another Falgun.

The dark cuckoo -- seated behind the lush foliage -- calls for its mate in a mellifluous tone, one that never fails to enchant lovers. It colours the spring canvas with everything that is yellow; anything that vitalises life.

Yet to a young woman standing firmly at the altar of the monument, the fragrant wind, the echo of the bird's call, the warmth of the spring sun reminds of another Falgun -- a day in the distant past but one as fresh in the mind as the spring blossoms.

One may easily be misled into thinking that she mourns her son. The moistened eyes speak not of maternal love yet one that is shared through the womb. She cries but her voice is not raised. She is in pain but she does not wail. For her brother is not dead but a martyr. For her brother brought expressions; her brother gave generations the gift of Ekushey.

By Mannan Mashur Zarif
Photo: Sazzad Ibne Sayed
Model: Reetu Sattar
Wardrobe: AnDes
Makeup: Farzana Shakil