There’s a TROUT to everyone.


I discovered my TROUT in a few yellowing albums at Choddu’s today all to the end for my fussy Ma, after all, to hold me back, at didarbari for Noboborsho of all the days in the year.

The place, as I’ve always felt since dida’s left, now barely reeks of the magic. The magic’s been quietly buried under asphalt with the magical muddy lanes and its weedy overgrowths. It’s so new and strange today; it has not a single trace of old days.

But then there’s a TROUT to everyone, as I was telling you, that flips flops its flippers and leaves behind trails of colors every time it wakes.

And this, I re-understood in the middle of yellowing albums, in the middle of a baseless conversation, in the middle of needless laughters, and in the same shabby room that once reeked of tetul and kacha aam.
So many things change. And so many things never do.

And, so will the story never end or the quill ever stop.
And while even the Neverland’s gone, neither shall Peter Pans die in nineteen or twenty-eight-year olds.

Too much of emptiness that has been around, suddenly found some magic. And there's the TROUT whistling...

A friend is back.