Assalamu Alaikum everyone "
how are you all
"Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim"
My username @sajjadbd and I am in from Bangladesh
The monsoon season stirs life as well as the five senses. Our country's spring season has no particular significance because, unlike in countries with winters, it does not snow here, and the trees' leaves do not change colour and turn completely bald. In such countries, spring sends the message of liberation and sings the song of life and youth. Spring is not as apparent because our winters are not as harsh, and it doesn't snow here. Only a Bengali can appreciate the exquisite soft covering the monsoon sky provides to our eyes in this country of eye-burning light, according to Pramath Chowdhury. Today's atmosphere makes it appear that the rains have covered him in the feathers of a shadow-coloured bird, which is why his touch is so delicate in our sight.
Monsoon-themed writings and songs exist. There are garments as well. Punjabi Meghvaran, blue sari. Kadamful by birth, Elokeshe. Monsoon season travel is also possible. Let's travel to the Man Bhati area, launch, and observe the rain. On a wet day, I'll sit by the water.
Bangladesh is most beautiful when it is raining. The foliage is a lush green. The fields of Aush are flooded. The tree's leaves are entirely free of dust. The leaves are dusty and drab in other seasons.
When we were kids, we enjoyed fishing for darkies, fishing from ponds in ponds, and playing football in the rain during monsoon season. I used to shove the log into the canal's water while supporting it with a raft made of banana plants. Mango peels, jackfruit ghosts, a strong fruity aroma in the air, and blue flies buzzing all over the yard may be heard. There was yet more. Tila: We used to refer to the white shirt's black blotches as moles. Continue to read? Is it still raining when you're in school? Does a double tiffin exist? You have to go to school on a rainy day whether you like it or not. I went to school with a polythene bag full of books, jeans rolled up to my knees, and an umbrella on my head. I would get drenched because the rain would not heed the umbrella.
Then, a three-day fever. Horrible. Eat only barley, sago, or rice. Go, the pond is beckoning you, go swim, Amma murmurs as she pours water over her head. The sky is pitch-black as dusk approaches. who's daughter yells, "Come, come, ducks, come back, my youth." It may be stated in such heavy downpours on a day like that.
The sluice gate opened, the sluice gate, the lovely canal overflowing in the corner of our house's courtyard, the tin house, the dal, the soft khichuri of thick rice made by my mother—I remember my mother, I remember my father, all of those things.
Thank You.