The Everyday Pen

One of my happiest childhood memories is visiting my  mama bari , where my  dida  (grandmother) cooked in her kitchen. The kitchen was not just a place for cooking—it was the heart of the house. It was warm, full of smells, and quiet little stories mixed with the food. Dida  cooked on a wood stove. She used small pieces of wood called  pathkathi  to keep the fire alive. I loved helping her with my small hands. Sometimes I would feed the fire, adding more wood so it would not go out. Other times, I had to push the  pathkathi  in the right way so the fire stayed steady. I felt proud, like I was part of a secret mission, learning how to cook and how to take care of the fire. The mornings there felt magical. Sunlight came softly through the small kitchen window. Dust floated in the air like tiny golden lights. The fire crackled, and the sound of pots and spoons made a quiet music in the background. While  dida  stirred the rice and dal, I wo...

This story takes me back to when I was young—maybe in class 3 or 4. At that time, there was an old man who used to patrol our village at night. In his left hand, he carried a stick, and in his right hand, he held a lantern. The lantern flickered like a little star. Electricity had reached our village, but it was weak. The streetlights hardly worked. Even now, I think only two or three lights glow properly. When the old man came near our house, he didn’t shout “ Jaagte Raho ,” like we see in movies or on TV. We never heard anything like that in real life. His arrival was quiet, but always on time. Every evening, between 8:00 and 8:10, he walked by. I do not remember what I was doing at that time, but I do remember stopping everything and quietly going to the window to look. As he walked, his stick made a clear  khat khat  sound on the ground. That sound echoed in the dark and made the night feel alive. I liked to watch him from the window. He moved slowly but steadily. I rememb...