“Modern Indian women do not like to wear the saree Bula’di. It is 2011 and not 1971. We prefer jeans and a top. Further, the saree is neither sporty nor comfortable. It restricts one’s mobility,” smartly commented twelve-year-old Nehusta. “Stop calling your grandma Bula’di, child. Please call her granny. You address your elder sister as ‘Di’ and not a lady sixty years older than you,” sternly interrupted the little girl’s mother, bringing down the novel she was gravely reading. “Maya dear, leave her be. I like being called Bula’di. It makes me feel younger. It’s no fault of your daughter when everyone in the locality calls me Di,” spoke up the old lady in defence of her grandchild.
The three generations of women sat on the balcony of their three-storey ancestral home at the interjection of Baldeo Para Road and Raja Dinendra Street in the Indian city of joy, Kolkata, soaking in the warm rays of the mellow sun on a pleasant autumn afternoon. On this sunny day of rest, mommy wanted to complete the novel she had been trying to finish for the last six months amidst all her hectic office work and homely duties. Daughter Nehusta sat with a pair of her old jeans, making gashes in it with a snap-off sliding cutter and granny just sat there looking out at a group of children playing at a tube well on the opposite side of the street.
“Well, my child, you would be surprised to know that I was the queen of mischief when I was your age. I used to climb the tallest of tamarind trees and swim in the turbulent waters of the mighty Buriganga wearing a saree, and I was dam sporty,” reflected the old lady with a smile remembering some childhood memory of joy and then she fell silent as the radiance of happiness on the wrinkled skin of her archaic face turned into a pale glimmer of sadness, while her gaze shifted from the frolicking kids on the opposite side of the street to the old conch shell bangle adorning her right wrist.
“There was, however, one night forty years ago when I swam like I never had or would need to ever again in my life, “ reflected the ageing lady, blankly looking at the worn ornament on her wrist, lost in some old and haunting memory of a not-so-distant past.
“Why do you wear the Shankha Buladi, aren’t widows supposed to break these conch shell bangles when their husbands die,” curiously enquired the twelve-year-old, only to infuriate her mother. “Nehusta! Stop with these nonsensical questions,” pounced Maya to stop her daughter from opening up old wounds on her mother’s soul that had perhaps not healed even after four decades from being inflicted.
“Anyways, I should not have even asked, as both of you prefer never even to speak about grandpa. Funny that we don’t even have a picture of him. Did he even exist,” smartly commented the little girl with a rhetorical look. “Nehusta! Take back what you just said. Do not say things you have no idea about,” shouted Maya, this time dropping her novel and getting up from her chair, ready to discipline her daughter, who had crossed some forbidden line.
“I was born in this house, and when I was about four years younger than you are now, I was married off. A little eight-year-old child-bride leaving her home in Calcutta and travelling with her eighteen-year-old husband and unknown in-laws to start a new life in Dhaka was not unusual in 1947,” spoke up Bula’di, stopping her daughter from punishing the cheeky girl.
“Mother, you never speak about this. You don’t have to do it now,” said Maya with a plea of concern. “It was the last month of the year. India had just got its freedom from the British four months back. The country was now divided into two nations. India in the middle, and the newly formed Islamic Republic of Pakistan comprising West Pakistan in the northwest and East Pakistan in the northeast side of the country. It was both a time for joy and sorrow, a mixed era of triumph and defeat at the same time,” reflected granny with moist eyes.
“West Pakistan had a majority of Muslim Punjabis whereas East Pakistan was more diverse with a sizeable population of Hindu Bengalis. The Government and the majority in the West looked down upon those in the East. They called the East a low-lying land of low-lying people who polluted the area with non-Muslim values,” said Buladi, doing her best to explain the religious-political scenario of the time, the result of an age-old Hindu-Muslim conflict.
“My parents were traditional and overprotective. I had a strict upbringing in this house. My husband, on the other hand, was the kindest man I had ever known. He treated me like a child. We lived like brothers and sisters rather than husband and wife. It was in my in-laws’ house that I tasted real freedom, learned to climb trees, swim, and live a happy life,” spoke up Buladi, this time lighting up with the glee of a happy memory.
“My in-laws were conch shell bangle merchants, and business was booming. We had the most beautiful three-storey house in the Shankharibazar market of old Dhaka. The ground floor was used for business while we lived on the first and second floors of the house. Everyone in the neighbourhood was engaged in businesses related to conch shells items. I spent the next twenty-four years of my life there. On the banks of the Buriganga River was our second home, a five-acre farmhouse where we used to go very often. It was here where I learned to climb trees and swim in the river,” reflected Buladi with the happiness of a rewarded child.
“This conch shell bangle is the only surviving relic from that time. I have nothing else with me from that life,” softly spoke the old lady as the smile on her face turned to a reflective grimace of sadness. “Why Buladi, I mean granny, what happened? I did not know we had relatives in Bangladesh,” spoke up Nehusta with newfound excitement. “No, my child, we do not have any relatives in Bangladesh. All of them died on the dreadful night of 26th March, forty years ago in 1971,” said Buladi, while silent tears beaded her crinkled cheek-line.
“Why, what happened to them? Did they fall sick? Was there an accident,” little Nehusta bubbled with volleys of questions. “The seed of what happened was perhaps already there in the hearts of the very first men that walked on earth. It is hatred for what someone else believes. What happened on the night of 26th March 1971, however, took twenty-four years to build up,” reflected the old woman, lost in some deep and disturbing thought.
“It all started with classification and symbolisation, where people were divided into – us and them. Followed by discrimination and dehumanisation where the minority was equated with vermins or diseases. Then there was organisation, the creation of specific groups by the Government to probe the weaker section, which was followed by polarisation, the use of propaganda to turn the majority against the minority. Finally, persecution – theft, murder, massacre, and mass extermination. No, my child, there was no sickness or accident, only genocide,” bleakly spoke the old lady while beads of tears lodged in the worn crevices of her wrinkled facial skin.
“That does it. That’s enough mother. Nehusta it’s time for your afternoon siesta. I won’t take no for an answer, get going child,” spoke Maya sternly sending away her daughter from the veranda, realising that her mother needed to share what she had kept buried in her heaving bosom for more than forty years.
“Mother, Nehusta is too young to hear all of this, but I am glad that you are speaking about this at last. Please tell me more about what happened. I want to know about my father,” said Maya softly, holding her mother’s hands.
“I opened my eyes only to feel excruciating pain. Somebody had struck me on the forehead, and I could not remember what had happened earlier. I felt dizzy and nauseated. The blood from the wound on my head had dried and caked around my eyes, making it difficult for me to see. I forced my eyes open and through a veil of red, I saw a man standing a few feet from me. My hands and legs were tied to the bedpost as I lay there helpless. He was not the only one. More of them came into the room taking their turn one by one. None of them was gentle. They were filled with hatred. They punched, kicked, and spat while they ravaged. I fell unconscious only to wake up to the torture over and over again. The cycle of trauma continued till there was not a piece of cloth left on myself or a breath of life left in me. They left me for dead,” said Buladi as tears streamed down her old face.
Maya had fallen silent. She did not know what to say. She only cried with her old mother, hugging her, and kissing her on the forehead. Buladi continued, “my torture had loosened the ropes that bound me to the bed. A few hours after my violators had left me for dead, could I muster the strength and courage to free myself, get up, wear a saree, and get out of the room. Outside in the courtyard of our home, I found the lifeless bodies of my loved ones lying in their blood and gore in the aftermath of an unspeakable carnage.”
“I somehow made it through the burning streets riddled with lifeless cadavers of people everywhere to our farmhouse on the banks of the Buriganga. There I hid for four days before recouping with my injuries and taking the decision to swim across the river in search of safety. I started swimming at night, and I swam as I had never before. At far I could see the shoreline burning and could not decide where to hit land. I could not guess where it would be safe. I stayed in the water for twelve hours and then lost consciousness,” said the old lady remembering a memory she had tried hard to forget.
“I woke up to find myself on a boat. A poor fisherman had rescued me from drowning. The fisherman was a Bihari Muslim, a community supported by the West Pakistan regime, but he was kind at heart and not a violent man. He hid me in his boat. Earlier that month, 300 people from his community were slaughtered in rioting by Bengali mobs in Chittagong. The Government used the ‘Bihari Massacre’ to justify its deployment of the military in East Pakistan to exterminate the Bengalis,” said Buladi, now more composed in her thoughts and words.
The old lady continued, “I don’t remember how many days we were on that little boat. We travelled through five rivers, Buriganga, Dhaleshwari, Kaliganga, Brahmaputra, and Padma to finally reach Charghat in the Rajshahi district of Bangladesh, where we landed on Indian soil in the Hazrahati Mirganj village in Murshidabad district of West Bengal. Many people helped me from there and I reached this house after a week of travel.”
On the dreadful Thursday of 25th March 1971, The Government of Pakistan launched ‘Operation Searchlight’, a military crackdown to extinguish the flame of Bengali people’s call for self-determination in East Pakistan. On the afternoon of 26th March, the Pakistani army attacked the Shankharibazar area of old Dhaka. Buladi’s in-laws were among the hundreds of Bengalis killed on that day. During the nine-month-long Bangladesh Liberation War that followed, the Pakistan Armed Forces and pro-Pakistani Islamist militias from Jamaat-e-Islami killed between 300,000 and 3,000,000 people and raped between 200,000 and 400,000 Bengali women, in a systematic campaign of genocidal rape.
“I am so sorry mother. I simply cannot imagine what you went through. Now I understand why you never spoke of this before. I wish you had a photograph of father, only if I could give him a face, somehow, I would feel complete,” sadly reflected Maya still holding her mother’s hand.
After deeply thinking for a moment Buladi held her daughter’s face in her shrivelled palms, kissed her forehead and said, “the man I married in this house in December of 1947 was not your father Maya. He loved me very much but more like a little sister. God had made him that way. Your father was one of them who had me on the night of 26 March 1971. I do not know his name or face. You might be a ‘War Child’ but you are mine and I love you more than anything in this world.”
Copyright © 2022 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
This work of fiction, written by Trishikh Dasgupta is the author’s sole intellectual property. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real while some fictitious. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
Great story, beautifully written!! I loved it!
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Thank you so much for appreciating. It really makes my day.
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Wow! Wonderful story! I can´’t stop reading, almost bitting nails. Amazing!
Congratulatios Trishikh! Thank’s for share. Have a great day!
Elvira
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You are most welcome dear old friend. You never seize to appreciate my stories, and that is very precious to me. So happy that you liked this little tale of mine.
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You are so kind dear old friend Trishikh. Always a pleasure read your stories. Thank’s. Have a great weekend! Take care.
Elvira.
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A great weekend to you too. 🙏
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Thank you 🙏
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Thank you so much Ned for always being so supportive and appreciative of my stories, and for promoting them in your blog. I treasure this friendship.
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I welcome your return to posting stories. What a difficult story to tell and you did it well.
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Thanks Rebecca, so happy that you liked my story. Yes, I was unable to post a story for 2 months now. Am glad to be back though.
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A very strong return!
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Glad that you think so Rebecca.
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A wonderful write, Trishikh👏🏼
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Thank you so much Deeksha. Appreciation always works wonders for my writing engine.
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This is a very very interesting and heart touching story. I had tears while reading about the Liberation of Bangladesh from Pakistan. Excellent gripping narration. ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️
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Thank you so much Aparna. We tend to forget the stories surrounding to the Independence of India and the partition. Withing the next 25 there, everyone of that era would be gone. It is important for us to preserve this history, and I feel stories are a great way to do it. Glad that that you could connect with the story on an emotional level.
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😊😊😊
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Trishikh questa storia è tanto triste e crudele . Ho letto con commozione perché è accaduto tanto volte e accade ancora nel mondo reale . Tu hai saputo raccontarla con tanta delicatezza. Il coraggio e la forza della vita consentono a Bula di continuare il suo viaggio . La figlia mi trasmette la speranza .
Ho letto con commozione . Bravo ,Grazie ciao
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Dear Sossu, I am so happy that my story stirred emotions within you. Yes, it is indeed very sad, how human beings keep on repeating their mistakes. It is really sad, how hellbent are we to destroy ourselves.
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Really an excellent and interesting read as always
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Thank you so much Arpita. Your comments always gives me much encouragement. Have a great weekend.
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Hello Trishikh!
Absolutely absorbing and heart touching story. I don’t have words to express my thoughts on this.
We read/ hear such stories in news, but reading the first hand account from a survivor gives an altogether different kind of pain. History has many such painful incidents of suppression and oppression of innocent people throughout the World. All we can do that, is wish and pray, that no human being should suffer like this woman in the story did.
Your story telling is powerful and extraordinary, as always.
In 1971, I was too young to understand all this, but I remember the war, and my family elders constantly listening to the radio news. And yes, saree for me at least, is the most graceful outfit.
Thank you for sharing this. My Best Wishes to you.
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Dear Chitrangada, thank you so much for this thoughtful and heartfelt comment. This story is fictional though inspired from similar real-life events. I am so happy that you felt life it was real. That perhaps makes me most successful as a writer. Many Bengali families have similar stories, which unfortunately we will never come to know. Glad that I was able to write this one, which can be a n ode to the tribulations of those who suffered. I too admire the saree, it is indeed a very elegant and graceful dress.
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So true , reality of life story 🌷🙏👍🏻thank you so much for sharing and grace wishes 👏♥️😊🌷
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Thank you so much for appreciating my story. Yes, stories such as these are difficult on the soul. They reflect the darkness of her humankind, but it is necessary to tell them.
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🌷🙏♥️🌷
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Something more than just a story., it comes to me as a real life incident.. Tears ran down.. So so well done, Applauds.. 👍🏼👏🏼👏🏼🙂👌🏼…
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I am so happy that you felt as if the story was real and not a fiction. Yes, such incidents did happen and the story is certainly inspired by similar incidents. The genocide in Bangladesh in 1971 was a very horrifying episode in human history indeed.
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Indeed.. 🙏🏼😔
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Excellent, very moving piece Trishikh.
Hugs
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Thank you so much David. So happy that you liked it.
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Thank you so much David. Really treasure your appreciation.
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I enjoyed reading this excellent piece – so well written that I was sitting on that balcony.
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I am so happy that my story was able to teleport you to its location. The house and the balcony really exists as it is inspired from my maternal grandmother’s house.
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Great to have you back on my reader! It’s been a while. I missed your story posts.
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Yes, I had an exact 2 months break from writing short stories. I did not want to take this break, it just happened due to other priorities. i am back though.
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Dear Trishikh, These lines impressed me a lot; You might be a ‘War Child’ but you are mine and I love you more than anything in this world.”
An excellent and gripping story with facts in it. Thanks.
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Dear Alev, thank you so much. So glad that you liked the concluding line of the story so much. I always treasure your appreciation.
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Another wonderful story.. really enjoyed reading it.. thank you ❤️
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My pleasure to have been able to bring forth this story to the world. So happy that you liked it. Appreciation such as yours works miracles for my writing engine.
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A painful and touching story, Trishikh. Well told. Meanwhile, here in my country, people are calling for a civil war. They know not what they ask for.
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Dear Rosaliene, thank you for liking my story. It is unfortunate that even in today’s world ‘war’ still remains as an option for many a conflict. My prayers are for your country. May God provide strength and wisdom to the key persons to take better decisions and avert a violent outcome.
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This is a very heart touching story woven around the predicament of the old lady Bula di. The torture is unforgettable. It kept me captivating throughout. It reminds me of my brother who as an army man was despatched to East Pakistan to fight as Muktibahini.
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Dear KK, as always I look forward to your comment, and it gives me really great joy to read it. Yes, many Indian Army personnel were deployed in Bangladesh war. One thing good is that Bangladesh has developed a lot as a nation.
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You’re welcome, Trishikh, always
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People, if honest, know what is good and respectful.
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Very true. I think not everyone is brave enough to walk the path of honesty, as it is usually more difficult, but once you start walking on it, slowly with years of practice, one realises it’s the right way, no matter how difficult, and it becomes easier to stay honest. Honesty has to be developed and constantly practiced.
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All ove the world, it’s horrendous, what humans are capable of. Re: India/Pakistan, I’ve been reading the works of Arundhati Roy.
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Humans are their biggest enemy. Hatred for one another, jealousy, intolerance the list is endless. It is unfortunate that even with so many lessons from history, we hace failed to correct ourselves. Someday perhaps, taking the next step of evolution we will stop such violence and live for more peaceful purposes. Arundhati Roy is an amazing writer. I admire her works too. Thank you for this beautiful comment. Have a great weekend friend.
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Thank you very much for your touching and cruel story! It seems that humans have unsurmountable problems to renounce to violence and find peaceful solutions for their problems!
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Dear Martina, that is one of the sad legacies of the humankind. It seems violence is something ingrained in our DNA. I am glad that you liked the story. Thank you for sharing your feedback, it really makes writing these stories worthwhile.
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:):)
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A very sad story, Trishikh!
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, yes the story does have a sad history to it, but has a peaceful ending I believe. So nice to hear from you. I am doing great, hope you are doing well too. I have had an absence of 2 month from writing, but am back now.
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What a sad mess we have made of this world. May we keep the one hope burning in our hearts. Thank you for reading and choosing to follow my blog. May it encourage and strengthen you in the one true hope.
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Yes indeed we have made a mess of this world, or rather we are a born mess but the good news is that there is salvation if we repent and rectify our ways.
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Amen.
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A heartbreaking story, Trishikh, well told, as you always do. Human beings are strange creatures, what don’t they do to each other. These cruel deeds are not justifiable by religion, neither Hindu, nor Muslim. It is the uncontrolled animal in humans that comes through in those moments.
As far as I see it, religion is used by politicians to sow division between people to reach one or the other goal to gain more power. None of the five big religions’ basic philosophies support killing and rape. And still they fight each other, even sometimes different fractions of the same religion. Humans are weird!
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Dear Stella, first of all I must thank you for your beautiful and thoughtful comment. Your constant appreciation brings me great joy.
I could not have agreed more with your analysis – human beings are indeed strange creatures and all the discord is a result of few greedy men wanting more.
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This is a sad tale, but it was most excellently penned…
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Yes it is sad indeed, and I felt so strongly to share it with the world. Thank you so much for commenting.
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The fiction and nonfiction narratives reinforce each other, blending well w/o confusion between them.
BTW, “thirty” should be “forty” in the first line of paragraph 4.
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Thank you so much for this beautiful comment. It really shows how deeply you read and enjoyed my story.
You are absolutely right about the number of year. I miscalculated it in a hurry. Am travelling, so will change it day after tomorrow when I am back home.
Take care dear friend.
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🙂
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Class in always in session when I’m reading your stories. Always powerful! My heart goes out to every victim! My understanding increases with everything you tell!
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Dear Patrick, reading your comment gives me great joy too. I am so happy that you find my stories classy and powerful. Yes experience/ trauma suffered by the victim will make most of our hearts heavy.
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I love the interaction between the three generations of women! The story is tragic, but so filled with love!
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Dear Dawn, as always your comment elates me to a great extent. I am so happy that you liked the interaction between the three generations of women. I specifically wanted it to bring out how the generations are different and yet related to each other.
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Your story has brought me to tears, Trishikh. Heart-rending, powerful, informative. These are stories that need to be told.
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Thank you so much Sue, so glad that you feel so strongly for my story. Your comment really made my day.
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Loved reading. ❤
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Thank you so much. Always treasure appreciation.
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Thank you, I’m learning about events I didn’t know occurred.
“Buladi’s in-laws were among the hundreds of Bengalis killed on that day. During the nine-month-long Bangladesh Liberation War that followed, the Pakistan Armed Forces and pro-Pakistani Islamist militias from Jamaat-e-Islami killed between 300,000 and 3,000,000 people and raped between 200,000 and 400,000 Bengali women, in a systematic campaign of genocidal rape.”
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I am so glad to have been able to share these historical facts. I think it is very important for us to remember the mistakes of the past in order to evolve into a better species.
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Thank you for writing such a moving story. The world has very far to advance past such tragedies as this.
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Sad but true indeed. Similar things still happen today in different parts of the world. Hopefully there will be a day when humanity transcends beyond violence and strives for higher goals with peaceful means.
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May that day arrive soon.
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You have a knack for leading us from the unassuming particular personal to the general, universally applicable.
I remember this savage war inflicted on Bangladesh, as we knew it, in Western Europe. Ignorantly perceived as far away and one of those typical post-colonial rearrangements. We in the west were convinced our diplomatic skills had done away with solving our disagreements with military means. The war in Bosnia and Ukraine has sent the reality at home; forever simmering discontent is part of the human condition.
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I simply do not understand, that why does war still happen after so many millenium of human existence. When will humans stop to be selfish and enjoy in the happiness of others.
Thank you for always liking my stories and thoughtfully commenting. I treasure your feedback with the deepest regard. Have a great weekend good old friend.
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Beautiful Story🌟
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Beautiful because it’s written very heartedly that it connects with each and every emotion , Though sad and tragic but that too helps in living life and learning.
Thanks for this.
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Yes you are right, they story is perhaps beautiful in the way it’s woven and all, but the topic is sad, I understand that. As you say, I also agree that tragedy also helps us learn and evolve.
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Thank you so much for enjoying the story.
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A story that makes you cringe but the power is in its telling!
I could predict the flow of the tale and its climax but I greatly appreciate what you’ve done with it, Trishikh! Weaving so many intricate details and yet never loosening the grip on the tale. Absolutely magnificent! You’re becoming an even more powerful story-teller!
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Dear Harshi, as always your coment brings me much joy. I treasure your constant appreciation for my story telling. Yes the story does make us cringe…
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Powerful and moving. ❤
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Thank you so much Anna. I always look forward to your appreciation.
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The horrors of war. A tale breathtakingly penned that touches the heart.
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Yes, the horrors of war indeed. Hopefully one day we would learn to solve our differences in a peaceful way. Thank you for appreciating the story. Your comments always gives me great joy.
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Happy Monday My Friend.
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Thank you Goff, a happy and prosperous week to you too.
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Cheers.
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I see married women wearing Shankha Buladi. My wife and sisters are in Kolkata and they wear and even my wife. Not sure about the history of it but looks great on them.
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Yes Shankha (white conch shell) and Pola (red) bangles are a must traditional Bengali wear for women. They certainly do wear it for marriage, and many women continue to wear them throughout their lives. Nowadays modern Bengali women sometimes opt not to wear them constantly and only wear them occassionally.
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But Saree covers and yet makes the wearer so sexy in a good way. This comment I could not resist this after reading the first paragraph.
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Very true, the saree is a very beautifully and thoughtfully designed women’s wear, which can look good on any woman, no matter how her figure is. I think that is why it’s so popular, though a time is comming when women will wear it only occasionally as traditional wear.
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Wowzer!
This is absolutely touching Trishikh.
❤
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So nice to hear from you Emmanuel. So happy that you liked this story of mine. As always your comment gives me great joy. Stay happy, stay blessed good old friend…
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It’s always a pleasure to read you dear friend.
Be well always and Ink on! 🖋
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No doubt
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Thank you so much. Appreciation always makes my day.
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Thank you for promoting my story in your blog.
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Painful and heart touching story, very well explained.
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Yes, Suni some stories are hard on the soul indeed. I must thank you for appreciating. Appreciation always brings me great joy.
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You are welcome, Trishikh.
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Ohhh my god. Such a gripping tale of heartbreak. Beautifully written
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Dear Shweta, thank you so much for liking the story. So glad that you found the tale gripping.
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My pleasure 😄
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A trenchant tale of inhumanity, painful but important to ponder. The playful opening repartee between granddaughter and grandmother draws the reader in and makes the unfolding tale more personal, and thus more harrowing and meaningful.
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Dear Annie, as always reading your comment gives me great joy. It points out to me a writing style, which I personally was not aware of doing. These comments are so critical for a writer to grow.
Yes the tale is painful, but as you rightly say – important to ponder.
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Tender, powerful drama. A great read Trishikh 🌹
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Thank you so much Lesley for finding the story tender yet powerful. Appreciation such as this makes writing it so worthwhile.
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I love your writing and stories ❤️
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That’s a big honour for me Lesley.
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🙏🧡
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The feelings were intense. Hitting at the right spot & definitely leaving the lingering thoughts of bula’di in the heart as well as mind !!!
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Dear Aparna, thank you so much for visiting my blog, reading, liking, and commenting on the story. Your words of appreciation gives me great joy.
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BUONA GIORNATA
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A great day to you too. Thanks for visiting my blog and liking my story.
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Il piacere è tutto mio.
Grazie
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The pleasure is equally mine.
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🙂
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Bonjour mes amis, amies
Bonjour mes amis, amies
Je vous envoie un petit écris pour que vous commenciez bien votre journée
Avec une grosse pensée heureuse
Oubliez tous les petits défauts de la journée d’hier
Avancez sur du concret
La lumière du jour saura vous guider
Belle journée à vous, vos proches enfants
Bise BERNARD
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Dear Bernard, thak you for your beautiful words of encouragement. Have a great day good olf friend.
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Super post👏👏
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Thank you so much Rajani. Glad that you liked my story. Appreciation keeps me going.
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It’s my pleasure sir 🙏🙏
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You are most welcome, and the pleasure is equally mine.
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Nice
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Thank you Anand. Always a pleasure to receive your appreciation.
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