Give back the forests, take away this city

Every night, a market forms near the mill gate. When it's time for that market to close, Fulbanu stands on the high bank of the pond, waiting for her husband's return. The raised bank has been especially useful for her; it's like a watchtower. From there, she can see for a great distance. 

In their village, there used to be a weekly market, the Kaliachapra market. After the sugar mill was established, however, a small town soon grew around it, and a new daily market formed near the mill gate. It was created for the convenience of the mill workers. At first, a few villagers would bring their homegrown vegetables, cow's milk, and fish caught from the river to sell in front of the mill gate. Later, the mill authorities provided space near the gate and built some small stalls. Then several grocery stores opened there. The market was called the Mill Bazaar. 

Fulbanu's husband, Syed Ali, goes to the market after finishing his work in the field. The extra milk, fruits, and vegetables from their farm are brought to the market by the farmhand, who sells them at a designated price. Meanwhile, Syed Ali spends his time chatting at Jagar's tea stall near the mill gate. When everything is sold, the farmhand brings the money to him. With that money, Syed Ali sometimes buys fish brought from the city, or sometimes meat. He also buys goods from the grocery stores. Previously, one had to wait for the weekly market day to buy such items.                    .

While waiting with Fulbanu on the bank of the pond, Sajal says, "Grandma, isn't it great that the mill was built?"

Without waiting for an answer, he continues, "So many people from our village got jobs. The village children can now study at the mill school. People go to the mill's hospital for treatment. There's a daily market now." 

Even though Fulbanu had never learned to read or write, life had taught her many lessons. From her experience, she understood that her grandson saw the mill only in a positive light.

With a deep sigh, she replied, "No, my dear."

Fulbanu's voice was soft, and she brushed her grandson's hair with trembling fingers.

"Even though the mill has brought some good, it has also caused a lot of harm. Now, all night long, tractors roar past, raising clouds of dust, and their noise breaks my sleep. We never used to sleep under mosquito nets, but now, because of the mill's waste, mosquitoes lay eggs there and invade our village. The smoke from the mill scatters ash onto our trees, and we don't get as many mangoes as we used to. Many of our people are suffering from asthma. And it's not just the air or the mosquitoes. The mill drains dirty water into the canal where children used to bathe and catch little fish. Now the water stinks, and no one dares to go near it. The once-clear night skies are often fogged with smoke, and stars that used to twinkle above our rooftops are hidden. The peace of the village and its gentle rhythms are gone. 

"The mill has brought strangers, too—tricksters and fraudsters. Our own Moti Mia took money from people, promising them jobs, and then vanished. That never used to happen before. There's more tension now. People argue over money, over land, even over market stalls. Who knows what more will happen in the days to come? Only Allah knows."

After answering her grandson's question, Fulbanu sat still for a long while, her eyes lost in the fields beyond the yard. Memories floated back like dust in the wind. In every household, there used to be cows, and any extra milk was used to make curd, payesh, or firni. If a baby was born, neighbors would bring milk in exchange for bottle gourds, pumpkins, or radishes—no money needed, just love and mutual care. The new market had brought opportunities, yes. People earned more, sold their vegetables, fruits, and even fish from their ponds.

But something had changed. The warmth of simple living had faded. Kindness was being replaced by monetary calculations. Where laughter once rang during neighborly chats over a cup of tea, there were now hurried glances and guarded words. 

Fulbanu felt a quiet ache in her chest. There was one more thing which she didn't say to her grandson. In the past, when the sun dipped and the fields quieted, her husband, Syed Ali, would return home, wash up, and sit beside her under the dim light of a kerosene lamp. He would tell her stories—about his youth, the fields, the festivals, and the dreams he once had. She would chew betel leaves, and give some to him from her brass container, and they would talk for hours. These days he returned from the market drained, silent, and heavy-eyed. Dinner was followed immediately by sleep. The cherished conversations—the ones that kept their hearts close—had disappeared like dew in the morning sun. 

As Fulbanu blinked away her thoughts, she saw Syed Ali walking slowly along the narrow path between the fields, a three-battery torch in his hand, his posture slightly bent under the weight of his years. The fireflies danced gently around him, unaware of all that had changed. Her grandson watched too, sensing something in her silence.

"Dida," he asked quietly, "are you sad?" 

She smiled faintly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"No, shona. Just remembering." 

But in her heart, she knew—some things that are lost never come back. Not the stars, not the mangoes, and sometimes, not even the long, quiet talks under the moonlight.

This is the second part of a two-part story.

Abdullah Zahid is a Bangladeshi-American writer, librarian, and cultural commentator based in New York. He began his literary journey as a columnist for Jaijaidin, where his widely-read column "Manhattan Diary" was later published as a book of the same name. The second edition of the book was released in 2024.