The early seventies in Assam were a time of serenity, a world untouched by the chaos that would come in later years. Ramphalbil, a quaint village near Kokrajhar, lay close to the Terai forests near the Assam-Bhutan border. The air was alive with the rustle of bamboo groves, the chirping of birds, and the gentle murmurs of a stream winding its way through the fields. It was here that I spent a magical year of my childhood—a year that remained etched in my heart like a dream I never wanted to wake from.
I was six years old when my mother had to leave for Guwahati to complete her teacher’s training. My father, was a deeply respected man who wore many hats. He was immersed in teaching and deeply involved in social and cultural activities, especially the dramatics in *Bitorai Afad,* a cultural organization that had sparked a renaissance in Boro theatre. His days and evenings were consumed by meetings, rehearsals, and lectures. With both parents unavailable, my family decided it was in my best interest to stay with my father’s eldest sister in Ramphalbil for a year.
My aunt, a strong and kind-hearted widow, worked as a weaving instructor at a government school in the village. The school was part of an initiative to teach local women the art of fine weaving, giving them a means to earn a livelihood. Her little campus, with its neat cottages, clattering looms, and shaded courtyards, became my home for that year.
It was there that I met Geetanjali.
Geetanjali was the daughter of another staff member at the school. She was just a few months younger than me, with quick, mischievous eyes and a laugh that could brighten even the gloomiest day. From the moment we met, we were inseparable. Together, we turned the simple, rural campus into a world of endless adventures.
Our days began with the soft light of dawn spilling through the bamboo groves. We would race barefoot across the grass, laughing as the dew clung to our feet. The litchi tree near the stream became our fortress. Its sturdy branches bore witness to countless hours of climbing, daydreaming, and the occasional scraped knee. Once, when I tried to climb too high and lost my footing, Geetanjali, standing below, cried out in panic.
“Bapi da, get down! You’ll fall and break your head!” she yelled, her little hands stretched out as though she could catch me.
We spent hours crafting banana-leaf boats, setting them afloat in the stream, and imagining grand voyages to lands far away. On rainy afternoons, we turned the puddle-filled courtyards into battlefields, splashing each other until we were soaked and breathless with laughter.
One day, we discovered a hollow in the trunk of an old tree and decided it was our secret treasure chest. We filled it with little trinkets—a shiny pebble, a colorful feather, a piece of candy—and promised never to reveal its location to anyone. “This will always be ours,” she whispered solemnly. I nodded, feeling as though we had made the most sacred pact.
At night, under a sky crowded with stars, we sat on the school steps, counting fireflies. Geetanjali would point out constellations, her tiny finger tracing imaginary lines. “That’s the Big Bear,” she said one evening, though I had no idea if she was right. It didn’t matter. To me, she knew everything.
But like all beautiful things, that year came to an end. My aunt was transferred, and so was Geetanjali’s family. I was sent back to Kokrajhar, leaving behind the little kingdom we had built together. Life moved forward, as it always does, and the magical days of Ramphalbil became a cherished memory—a dream I clung to as I grew older.
Years turned into decades. I pursued my education, traveled far, and eventually moved to the United States. Life became a whirlwind of responsibilities and achievements. But even as the world around me changed, the memory of Geetanjali and those days in Ramphalbil stayed with me. Every visit to India rekindled the longing to know what had become of her. I asked around whenever I could, but with my aunt and father gone, the connections had frayed. Geetanjali seemed to have vanished into the folds of time.
Until last year.
An old acquaintance from those days reached out to me—a woman who had also spent time in Ramphalbil. When I mentioned Geetanjali, her eyes lit up with recognition. “I’ll try to find her,” she promised. Weeks later, I received a WhatsApp message: *She’s in a village near Nalbari. I found her.*
This year, I made the journey.
The drive to her village was long and bumpy, the roads winding through dense greenery and scattered settlements. When I finally reached her house—a modest structure with a tin roof and a small courtyard—I felt a mix of nervous anticipation and joy.
An elderly woman stepped out, her frail frame wrapped in a mekhela chador. Her face was lined with the marks of a life lived through hardship, her hands calloused from years of labor. Yet, her eyes held the same spark that had once lit up my world.
“Geetanjali?” I asked softly, unsure if she would remember me.
She looked at me, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Yes?”
“I’m Bapi,” I said, my voice trembling. “From Ramphalbil. Do you remember the litchi tree? The stream? The banana-leaf boats?”
Her eyes widened, and then, slowly, tears began to fill them. “Bapi da?” she whispered, her voice quivering with disbelief.
I nodded, my own eyes moist with emotion.
For a moment, she stared at me, as though trying to bridge the decades that had passed. Then, her lips curved into a trembling smile.
“Shopun Shopun haan laagchi,” she said in her soft Kamrupia Assamese accent. “It feels like a dream.”
We sat together for hours, talking about Ramphalbil and those golden days. She spoke of her life—of losing her husband, of raising her children in the face of hardship, of the simple joys that had kept her going. I listened, my heart heavy with both joy and sorrow.
Before I left, I gave her a small envelope with money, slipping it into her hand. She resisted, her pride evident, but eventually accepted it with quiet gratitude. As I turned to leave, she placed her hand on mine.
“Thank you for coming back,” she said, her voice breaking. “I never thought I’d see you again. Truly, it feels like a dream.”
That night, as I lay in bed, her words echoed in my mind. *Shopun Shopun haan laagchi.* It truly did feel like a dream—those golden days in Ramphalbil, the innocent bond we shared, and the miracle of finding her again.
Life, in all its twists and turns, had brought me back to where it all began, reminding me that amidst the rush of time, some moments remain untouched—pure, eternal, and waiting to be rediscovered.
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