Author’s Note
Shongshar (সংসার) is a Bengali word often translated as “household,” but it carries a deeper resonance. It encompasses not only a physical dwelling, but the shared life within it — the people, the rituals, the utensils, the waiting, the returning. It is the emotional gravity of a home. There is no precise English equivalent. This story rests inside that untranslatable space.
বাঁশি – Bashi : A flute made from bamboo. It plays most haunting melancholy tune.
ধান – Dhan : In English it is rice plant. A rice field from a little distance appear to be an undulating green carpet.
রিকশা – Rickshaw : A three wheel cycle. A bikes carrying passengers at the back.
গরুর গাড়ি – Gorur Gari : A carriage pulled by cow instead of horses. A very slow moving vehicle!
কলসী – Kolshi : A clay made pitcher, mostly black. A narrow neck, round pouring opening, and an elliptical body. It keeps water cool.
বাজার – Bazaar : A place for the sale of goods.
ওযু – Ozu : An ablution is a washing or a cleaning of oneself, for personal hygiene, or a ritual washing or cleaning associated with religious observance (prayer).
The boy and his mother lived in a small mud house at the edge of their village in rural Bangladesh. The walls were patched each monsoon, layer over layer. The roof sagged just enough to remember rain. From their doorway one could see the wide field where the ধান – Dhan bent with the wind and the narrow path leading to the river.
He had never seen a city. Never ridden a রিকশা – Rickshaw, never sat in a গরুর গাড়ি – Gorur Gari. The world was small: the river, the farmland, the বাজার – Bazaar, and the house that was their Shongshar.
Every morning before dawn, he carried a clay কলসী – Kolshi to the river. There had always been urgency in those steps. Water for ওযু – Ozu. Water to rinse rice. Water to begin the day.
Neighbors were almost family. They borrowed salt, lent rice, shared gossip and grief. Not long ago — or perhaps longer than he remembers — his mother had sent him for green chilies and an onion. She mashed them with সরিষার তেল – Shorishar Tel and salt to eat with fresh rice. That was dinner most nights — simple, sharp, enough.
Their future rarely extended beyond tomorrow. Sometimes to the next harvest. Distant futures belonged to other people.
At night, under full moons, he played his বাঁশি – Bashi. The tune he found most often was low and lingering — a melody that seemed to search for something it could not name. The children ran barefoot across the yard. Sometimes an older neighbor paused a little longer than necessary.
He dreamed of playing one day in the local যাত্রা – Jatra, the traveling village drama that arrived during election season with lantern lights and loud promises. He did not dream of leaving the village. He dreamed of being heard inside it.
This morning, he sits at the riverbank.
The Kolshi rests beside him, empty.
There is no urgency in his body.
Perhaps this is what growing feels like — a quiet distance from what once held you.
Time has its own demands. Sometimes they arrive without asking.
The house still stands. The clay stove remains in its corner. The metal plates are stacked as always.
Yet when he imagines returning, he cannot quite picture the moment of arrival.
The river no longer pulls him back toward the house the way it used to.
He lowers the Kolshi halfway into the water, then pauses.
The surface steadies. His reflection looks back at him — clearer than he remembers. Not the hurried shadow of a son.
A face that could belong anywhere.
Was the house once a Shongshar because someone was inside it?
Or because he believed he belonged there?
How does one even begin a Shongshar?
If he cooks rice, stacks the plates, sleeps beneath the same sagging roof — does that make it one?
Or is Shongshar something that exists only among the breaths of all others under the same roof?
The river breaks his reflection into light.
He does not know whether he is leaving something behind, or whether something has already left him.
He fills the Kolshi slowly.
Not with urgency.
Not with certainty.
Only because something must be carried back.
He rises against a hesitation.
The field of Dhan bends in the wind.
The house stands where it has always stood.
He walks. The distance remains what it is.
Behind him, the river keeps moving.