Dust and Memories

By Srotoswini Bar Saha

After a tiring week, I finally got a day off.

My mind whispered that I should do something productive. Right then, my mom gave me an order: “Clean the attic.” With a careless expression, I dragged myself toward it.

As I opened the attic door, a storm of dust hit me, making me cough like my lungs would come out. The place was a complete mess—buried under seven or eight layers of dust. Spiders were spinning webs like old grannies knitting sweaters; lizards were putting on a circus, and insects roamed around the floor like they were out on a morning walk.

I stood at the attic door like Robert Frost, torn between two roads—one leading back to my clean, cozy room, slipping under the warm duvet watching some dead poet society, and the other deeper into the dusty chaotic attic. Just then, my thoughts were interrupted by my mom’s roar,

"Are you cleaning?!"

"Yes, Mom…!" I yelled back, and rushed into the attic.

As I cleaned a corner, something caught my eye—a small wooden jewelry box. I sat down and opened it with my dusty hands. What I saw inside made my lips curl into a smile: colorful letters, a journal wrapped in my old torn stockings, and a photograph.

I opened the journal and met my 13-year-old self again.

05.10.2014

Dear Diary,

Today was really a wonderful day. Piku took me to the yellow forest. We spent the whole day together. And he gave me his first hand written letter…

I held the photograph and drowned in memories.

In 2014, life was flowing in its usual rhythm. The days were scorching hot, draining all my energy. The worst part was the noise—the relentless hammering and grinding from the four-story house being built right next to ours. It felt like someone was smashing my head with stones.

It was during one of those summer days that I met him—an 11-year-old brown-skinned boy with a muddy smell that clung to him like a second skin. My brother and his friends were bullying him, and I made my entry like a savior and that moment marked the beginning of our story.

Piku and I began spending a lot of time together. We took photos in the yellow woods. He plucked mangoes from trees while I read novels aloud to him, explaining the meanings. I even encouraged him to enroll in a government school, but he always refused—stubborn as he was.

21st February, Friday.

Mom, Bhai, and I were returning from school when a terrible noise made us look toward the construction site. Without wasting a second, we rushed over. A crowd had already gathered.

After pushing and struggling through the people, I finally managed to take a look—and for a moment, my world stood still. My body froze. My tears carved trails down my red cheeks.

Suddenly, my mom pulled me close, pressing my face into her dupatta-covered chest. But the scene kept flashing in front of my eyes.

A familiar body lay on the ground. A bunch of giant iron rods had crushed him. His shirt was ripped, his head smashed, skull torn apart—blood scattered everywhere. His eyes… they were still open, searching for something. Maybe relief.

That was the last time I saw Piku.

Now, back in the present—six years later—everything has changed.

Everyone has forgotten about that brown-skinned, 11-year-old boy, with the muddy smell that always clung to him…

Dust and Memories

After a tiring week, I finally got a day off.

My mind whispered I should do something productive. Right then, my mom gave me an order: “Clean the attic.” With a careless expression, I dragged myself toward it.

As I opened the attic door, a storm of dust hit me, making me cough like I’d never stop. The place was a complete mess—buried under seven or eight layers of dust. Spiders were spinning webs like old grannies knitting sweaters; lizards were putting on a circus, and insects roamed the floor like they were out on a morning walk.

I stood at the attic door like Robert Frost, torn between two roads—one leading back to my clean, cozy room, and the other deeper into the dusty chaos. Just then, my thoughts were interrupted by my mom’s shout:

"Are you cleaning?!"

"Yes, Mom…!" I yelled back, and rushed into the attic.

As I cleaned a corner, something caught my eye—a small wooden jewelry box. I sat down and opened it with my dusty hands. What I saw inside made my lips curl into a smile: colorful letters, a journal wrapped in my old torn stockings, and a photograph.

I opened the journal and met my 13-year-old self again.

05.10.2014

Dear Diary,

Today was really a wonderful day. Piku took me to the yellow forest. We spent the whole day together. And he gave me his first letter…

I held the photograph and drowned in memories.

In 2014, life was flowing in its usual rhythm. The days were scorching hot, draining all my energy. The worst part was the noise—the relentless hammering and grinding from the four-story house being built right next to ours. It felt like someone was smashing my head with stones.

It was during one of those summer days that I met him—an 11-year-old brown-skinned boy with a muddy smell that clung to him like a second skin. My brother and his friends were bullying him, and that moment marked the beginning of our story.

Piku and I began spending a lot of time together. We took photos in the yellow woods. He plucked mangoes from trees while I read novels aloud to him, explaining the meanings. I even encouraged him to enroll in a government school, but he always refused—stubborn as he was.

21st February, Friday.

Mom, Bhai, and I were returning from school when a terrible noise made us look toward the construction site. Without wasting a second, we rushed over. A crowd had already gathered.

After pushing and struggling through the people, I finally managed to take a look—and for a moment, my world stood still. My body froze. My tears carved trails down my red cheeks.

Suddenly, my mom pulled me close, pressing my face into her dupatta-covered chest. But the scene kept flashing in front of my eyes.

A familiar body lay on the ground. A giant iron rod had crushed him. His shirt was ripped, his head smashed, skull torn apart—blood scattered everywhere. His eyes… they were still open, searching for something. Maybe relief.

That was the last time I saw Piku.

Now, back in the present—six years later—everything has changed.

Everyone has forgotten about that brown-skinned, 11-year-old boy, with the muddy smell that always clung to him…

By Srotoswini Bar Saha