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Creative Writing - The Monsoon Storm

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´╗┐Page The Monsoon Storm Silence. Shadows are fluttering in the nights in sky against the full beam of the moonlight ominously. In the humid night of Bandarban, there are scraps of corrugated metal rusting in peace, laying flat on upright pieces of rotting wood. There are hundreds of them standing on dusty land. An Inhuman odour of stale urine fills the darkness- the slums are an eerie place to be. People are staring, begging or looking for hope. As the sky gets brighter, the sun bleeds light down the mountain of Keokradong, where they look up for the spirit which gives them encouragement for the storm that lies ahead? In the humid night of Bandarban, there is a stone cottage piping cloudy smoke in a dusty field where the ravenous, black crows hover; waiting for a meal to satisfy their hunger. Some perish under the white all-knowing eye of the dark as they fall into their sooty coffin of demise. The fine fragments of dirt have created a fine blanket of dust over the deceased tea leaves. ...read more.


Death, dark, despairs; when will this depression end? During mid monsoon in Bandarban, rain screeches down into the saturated, muddy depths of the field. There is such a lush shade of green that no eye can compare; the tea crop is blooming wildly as some of the plants are competing for sunlight. Crows are forever circling the great greenery to pick up anything that they choose to gorge on during this aqueous time. The air was subdued into a musky fragrance due to the tea. Because of all these things, this just made this day simply spectacular to the people. They were singing, dancing along with dressing up in such an elaborate series of clothes and feathers. This made the inconsequential field the most elated place in all of Bangladesh. During late summer, hope finally came to the slums (or so they thought). Over the mountain of Keokradong, blue skies were flushing out the grey cloud. Finally there?re scrutinizing at that intense scorching, incandescent sun that was visible once more. They are back to rebuilding their normal life in the slums. ...read more.


In the humid night of Bandaraban, there are dying crops wilting in the moonlight. The sun had very quickly sucked the life and moisture of anything its beam touches. The people stare into the dark and mysterious distance with melancholy, yet again worrying of what will become of themselves and their precious field. Already the ever hungry birds have left in search for a better meal- but soon they too will decease as their stomachs churn and starvation will get the better of them. Once the merriest place in all of Bangladesh, is now back to ponder on how to get the most of this desolate wasteland of a field. Bangladesh is a hard place to be. For the poor they look up to Keokradong awaiting the spirit to make everything better for them. But now they know there is no spirit. For years they looked and everything is the same; dark, despair, dry. They do not hope for anything now. There is no end to the depression no matter what season it is. However, for the farmers of Bandarban they can hope that the rainy months last longer-not because of the crops but because that is the time when they are truly happy. ...read more.

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