I set adrift a bunch of flowers in the river

We were growing weary watching the political unrest. Anxiety, fear, and terror were becoming normal to us. We saw how brutally the ruling powers could carry out massacres just to hold onto control. We were shocked at the sight of corpse upon corpse. We saw how the reins of a nation could pass from one tyrant to another. We witnessed how people, under the guise of patriotism, turned into traitors. We saw how they placed their hands on holy scriptures and told despicable lies. We saw how the plundering class looted billions and billions without consequence.

Justice had long been lost in our courts. There was no such thing as absolute justice. The pursuit of knowledge had vanished from our universities even earlier. Our secretariat, our social and religious institutions had turned into dens of corruption. Our newspapers had lost their freedom long ago. Our arts, literature, and culture had been eaten away by decay. We were turning from devout believers into blind fanatics. In the name of service, we had become looters.

Our young people had long been unable to indulge in love and romance. Children couldn't laugh and play freely. The elderly were growing more infirm. Parks, restaurants, recreational and tourist spots were closing down. All celebrations had vanished from our world. We had strangled the six seasons to death.

We were fed up with seeing all this. It felt like we couldn't breathe. Even when it was supposed to rain, the rain would retreat at the sight of human malice. Though it was the season of monsoon, it wouldn’t rain anymore. We were supposed to recite poems in praise of the rain. We were supposed to be enchanted by songs. We were meant to immerse ourselves in monsoon festivals and celebrations. We were meant to glorify the rivers of our land during the monsoon. We were meant to return to the rivers, to the memories of our childhood.

Our religious principles had long lost their effectiveness. Neither religion nor politics could grant us salvation. All shelters that once gave us hope for freedom had disappeared. Yet, we didn’t embrace awareness. So I gave up hope. Let everything be destroyed. Let it all turn to dust. Instead, let us, for a moment, worship the flower, worship the rain, worship love.

One monsoon afternoon, a group of friends and I went to Sinthipalli. As we were walking, I noticed a pink-yellow flower. As I kept staring at it, many thoughts filled my mind. I was able to write down some of them; others just faded away. In the monsoon, whenever I see blooming flowers anywhere, the winding paths and the banks of the Muhuri River in my birthplace appear on the canvas of my mind. There, in winter, monsoon, and spring, hundreds of flowers used to bloom. Especially in the monsoon, we friends used to walk down those rain-soaked paths, see many known and unknown flowers by the riverbank. Not just flowers, even the trees would be soaked. The raindrops on every leaf—how exquisite they were. Some of us picked flowers; others walked by quietly, taking it all in. I particularly remember the pink-yellow flower and the pineapple flower. According to the locals, snakes put their mouths on these flowers, sometimes spitting or leaving poison to prevent them from being picked. There was another white flower that we used to suck nectar from its back.

Flowers, rivers, monsoon, spring, summer—my birthplace was always filled with memory, wonder, and a sense of heaven to me. That birthplace always floats on the canvas of my thoughts. I feel like the most beautiful place on Earth is my village. When I grew up and heard Rabindranath’s song: “Along the wistful path of the wind, the blossoms fall; I have gathered them for your feet,” I thought that “wistful path” referred to the paths in my village. And “the blossoms fall” must be about the mango flowers from the tree in our yard.

When it rains heavily and floods, I remember the path to our house. One side had a huge krishnachura tree, big mango and coconut trees. The sound of wind through the bamboo groves was haunting. We had many mango trees at home. Their blossoms would scatter across the yard. When it rained heavily, the scene of rain in our village would rise before me. I’d remember our roof, the ponds overflowing with water, the Muhuri River and the dead canal. During the rainy season, I imagine myself walking quietly and alone along that winding path—along the bank of the Muhuri River or the dried-up canal. I don’t know how that village is now. What does it look like during monsoon? Are the white and yellow flowers still blooming by the riverbank? Oh, my village—my canvas of thought. I miss it terribly. Sometimes, I cry remembering it.

In these chaotic times, let us speak of love, even for a moment. There is nothing more beautiful, more eternal, more serene, and purer in this world than love. I want to tell my beloved: I wish I could press my nose to yours, my eyes to your eyes, my lips to your lips, rest my head upon your chest, clasp your hands in mine. Sometimes, I’d hide my face in your hair and slowly dissolve into nonexistence. In sleep, in wakefulness, at sunset, at sunrise, at dawn, noon, or night, in darkness or new moon—you’d find someone standing for you with a bunch of Dolonchampa flowers. That someone is me.

When chatting on a sidewalk, or walking barefoot through dew-soaked fields, or standing on a beach admiring its beauty, dipping our feet in dreamlike waters to watch the sunset, singing Rabindra Sangeet among Roman ruins, taking photos with the Eiffel Tower behind us, strolling through New York, wandering the alleys of Delhi, or walking the ancient streets of Dhaka that predate Christ—you’ll find someone waiting for you with a bunch of Kadam flowers. That someone is me.

Let’s fall asleep. In dreams, let’s imagine a world full of love. Let the Earth become a realm of love, even for just one day, one moment. Let lovers rejoice.

On Propose Day, my beloved asked for a Gandharaj flower. I told her I’d bring all the Gandharaj flowers in the world for her. Just like I used to collect Shapla and Shaluk in childhood. She said she loved to wear sarees. I brought her the most beautiful one. She asked me to bring a flower from Shahbagh—I brought an entire bouquet. Like Amitabh sent truckloads of flowers to Sridevi.

Then let’s speak of storms and rain. Storms and rain have always been part of our lives. Bangladesh is the land of 1,300 rivers. Since ancient times, we’ve survived through struggles with rivers, rains, and floods.

As a child, I used to think the world would end one day with these terrible storms and rains. Doomsday would arrive. I’d look at the sky and imagine so many things. The wild form of storms made me envision all kinds of scenarios. The roaring, the screaming. The massive coconut, betel nut, or banyan trees I saw in the village—one day I found the large mango tree had been uprooted in a storm. After a day or two of rain came a gentle breeze. Then the breeze would grow like waves—coming and going, coming and going. Then suddenly, one morning or afternoon or evening, the rain would pour incessantly.

I remember the film Hothat Brishti ("Sudden Rain"). The rain-soaked city of Kolkata. On a rainy afternoon, Priyanka went looking for her lover Ferdous. They had never seen each other—only exchanged letters. Ferdous wrote he lived in Kolkata, so Priyanka went there. She first met one of Ferdous’ colleagues, who said Kolkata was vast. And with all this rain, how can anyone find anyone? Still, she got into a taxi to search. The taxi driver was none other than her lover Ferdous—but neither recognized the other. Yet they were looking for each other. Drenched in rain, they ended up at Ferdous’ place. He gave her a saree to wear—one he had bought in Rajasthan for his beloved.

What an extraordinary love. What incredible rain. Every time it rains, I remember Hothat Brishti. I see rain-soaked Kolkata. I see drenched Priyanka. I see the alleys and streets of Kolkata in the rain. I fall asleep listening to “One day, a day of dreams, colorless with sorrow.”

That’s why, when the rain starts falling, I become euphoric. There’s nothing more beautiful, more aesthetic, or more fulfilling than the rain. Each drop of rain is purer and more graceful than anything else in the world. Like tears from clear eyes, every drop of rain brings clarity and beauty. Each drop evokes emotion. With the rain’s arrival, like every tree, every branch, every leaf, I, too, become rejuvenated. I become immersed in overwhelming joy. I listen to music, recite poetry.

On rainy days, I leave the stinking, unbearable city and head out to see the cloudy skies, the rivers, the mesmerizing waves. I embrace the darkness of night. I tell myself: Ah, it’s for you that Srabon has descended to Earth in this Ashwin. The nights and evenings of Srabon have arrived just to stir your soul. Jasmine, Dolonchampa, Kamini, Kathgolap, Malti, Jui, Juhi, Bakul, Gandharaj, Shetchampa, Shet-Rangan, lilies, tuberoses, Shapla, Kund, Shetkanchan—all these white-clad flowers of the monsoon have begun to bloom for you. Across the Turag River, your beloved stands with a bunch of Kadam flowers. It’s as if I’ve been buried in front of my house. A heavy rain falls upon my grave. Around it bloom all the monsoon flowers. And my lover stands there in a white saree like a sorrowful goddess, praying for me.

One day, on a holiday, I left the decaying city and headed toward Mainot Ghat on the Padma River via Konakhola, Dohar, and Nawabganj. The rain was falling in a gentle, mournful stream. I was getting drenched the whole way. The more I got wet, the more I saw the rain, the more I felt that nothing could be more beautiful or profound. I didn’t want to leave this beautiful world. I wanted to stay forever. To look at the rain, the clouds, the waves, the skies forever. I didn’t want sorrow, birth, death, or disease. Every moment felt more beautiful than any dream. I reached my hand out the CNG door. Let everything get drenched—I had no objections. Let it rain all day and night. Along the way, ponds and waterbodies overflowed. The clarity of the water, the water rippling atop water, blooming Shapla and Shaluk—it made me want to jump in. To merge with the water. To disappear like a snake, a fish, a scorpion. The decaying city streets filled with water. Raindrops on every leaf. Let it pour endlessly. Let clarity and serenity return to the Earth. Let all filth be washed away. Let this weary city be cleansed.

To me, heavy rain is divine. A special gift from the Creator. The great dramatist Selim Al-Deen believed rain and fog were the Creator’s sacred water. Rain is not only about love or romance—it makes everything beautiful. The rivers, the courtyards filled with water, the flowing streams, banana tree rafts—all of it is beautiful. Monsoon purifies our emotions and feelings. Who hasn’t been mesmerized by monsoon downpours, Asharh and Bhadro? Poets, writers, artists, scientists, rickshaw pullers, van drivers, street vendors, pedestrians—everyone. Rabindranath himself made a romantic offering: “Asharh returns again, covering the skies / The scent of rain comes floating in the breeze.” To Kazi Nazrul, monsoon was the “fairy of the rains.” He wrote: “Go, cloud messenger, take my letter of longing written on keya leaves to my beloved.”

Among all poets, it was Kalidas who was most enchanted by clouds and rain. That’s why he could write the Meghaduta, the cloud messenger, a poem of longing and monsoon. Jibanananda Das wrote: “This water feels so good; the silvery water of rain has for days washed my body—stroked my hair and eyes with its calm, gentle hand—played with passion—kissed me like a young maiden in love.” And Humayun Ahmed made countless people weep with a single line: “If your heart weeps, come back one monsoon day.” And I—a nameless, failed poet from the borderlands—see monsoon, rain, and storms as a special gift from the Creator. “Come to the kadamba grove, under the shade / Come, bathe in the water of the new downpour”—no other song stirs me like this one. So, I worship the ancient poet alongside rain.

Let me end with love. My heart is that of a poet. A writer’s heart. The heart of the Buddha and of the sacred Jesus. And what does a poet desire? "A poet seeks offering, a poet seeks the meditation of love and beauty." Just as the faithful extend their hands in prayer for a blessing, in the same way—just like that—I extend my hands, longing for your love.

This dark evening, this twilight, this rain, this flood—they all whisper to me how beautiful you are. According to Khalil Gibran, “Each of us needs a place to rest. The sanctuary of my soul is a grove where I can feel your presence.” Like Gibran, I too need a refuge—with you.

You already know, I live by the banks of the Banshai River—a river whose waves stir tears in the sorrowful. Whose rhythmic, cascading currents bring downpour to the heart. Sometimes, I feel like I, too, am helpless, pained, and bloodied like the Lebanese poet Khalil Gibran—he who remained enchanted by Mary Haskell for over ten years. One of his favorite habits was to hide away in his studio. Gibran once said: “Now I am far from this world. I am a man of another planet.” As if he's speaking my truth. As if Gibran’s heart is my own. Gibran’s soul lives within me. To Mary, Gibran wrote: “When you truly love someone, don’t say ‘God is in my heart’—instead, say ‘I am in the heart of God.’ The wondrous tenderness of love will teach you how to suffer. You will bleed gladly. And before you fall asleep at night, you will pray for the one who causes you such pain.” He also wrote: “Love crowns you with glory, but it also crucifies you.”

Truly, it feels like you are my Mary. You are my Kadambari Devi,
You are my Victoria, You are my Nargis, You are my Mumtaz.
I am Baru Chandidas, and you are my queen. That’s why, in your name, I lit a lamp. In your name, I set adrift a bunch of flowers in the river.

Shahadat Hossain Touhid: A young writer