Bhaskor Mollik was born on a humid summer afternoon in the year of our Lord 1900, in the narrow bylanes of Jessore, in undivided Bengal. The monsoon clouds hovered heavy above, the scent of wet earth and mango blossom swirling in the air. His first cries mingled with the drone of mosquitoes and the distant clatter of rickshaws rattling over mud-laced cobbles. His cradle was carved from teak, his cushions stuffed with kapok; he entered the world with a silver spoon in his mouth; his father, a wealthy zamindar, ensured no luxury was spared.
From his earliest years, Bhaskor was coddled, petted, and bowed to. In the courtyard, the servants whispered his name with reverence; his mother’s silk sarees trailed on the marble floor so that his tender feet never touched bare stone. The mango trees in the garden were coaxed into bearing perennially, and every evening, the scent of camphor and incense wound through the veranda. He grew plump and haughty, with eyes that flickered disdain whenever a servant approached. While his childhood laughter echoed through high-ceilinged rooms, kindness seldom touched his lips, and only arrogance brewed and grew.
By his twenties, he sported crisp collars, five o’clock shadows, and a sharp tongue. He indulged in gambling dens in Calcutta, smoked opium-laced cigarettes in secret salons, and drank until his liver complained. He squandered money on silk suits, silver cufflinks, and imported cognac. He treated his servants as conveniences, relatives as annoying obligations, and friends as props to flatter him. If someone whispered a suggestion in his ear, he would snap, “Do I ask your counsel, fool?” And they shrank away.
At thirty-five, he threw a grand ball under the Belgian glass chandeliers of his father’s Jessore mansion. Lanterns glowed like stars in the manicured gardens; the scent of jui and tuberose hung in the humid night. He danced with rich widows, laughed at poets, and insulted the musicians if their ragas faltered. His arrogance had grown into a fortress, and no one dared knock on its spiked door.
But fate is a sly painter, and her palette dark. In 1947 came the Partition. Bengal tore itself in two; friends turned to strangers overnight. Riots erupted in Jessore, and mobs roared in the streets with torches. Bhaskor’s family, in their arrogance, believed their status would protect them. But one night, the conflagration found them. Their mansion burned; screams pierced the air. He watched from a hidden room as relatives, servants, treasures, all went to blood or ash.
When the smoke cleared, Bhaskor stood amongst the ruins. He was forty-seven. His wealth had vanished, his lineage extinguished. He had no kin left; the streets rejected him. He wandered, gaunt and hollow, through refugee camps in Kolkata, through orphan shelters, through broken paths. For a time, he lived begging, hiding in alleys, vermin at his side, the stench of sewage and despair, his constant companions.
The loss scorched his soul. He lay awake at night, hearing echoes of laughter he no longer felt. He wept at dawn when he saw vultures tearing carcasses. A desperation rose inside him: to live, yes, but to become something different.
One evening, he slipped away from the city and journeyed into the border forests near Sundarbans, where mangrove roots gnarled like serpents, saltwater crocodiles lurked under the waters, and the Royal Bengal Tiger prowled the lands. Under vine-laced trees, the air was rich with salt and damp wood; cicadas buzzed in the gloom. He collapsed beside a stream, his heart ragged and battered.
There, he was found by an aged yogi, swathed in ochre and silence, who regarded him with calm, unjudging eyes. The sage spoke in a slow cadence: “If you wish to learn, you must listen. If you wish to speak, you must learn first to hear.” Bhaskor, ragged, foolish, broken, agreed. And so began the next episode of his life in the green womb of the wet forest.
Under the yogi’s tutelage, Bhaskor learned to breathe deeply, to feel the pulse of wind in leaves, to track the subtlest tremor of an ant on a branch. He meditated by moonlit clearings, watched the slow unravelling of a vine, and heard the scuttle of a scorpion in dead wood. Then, through years of systematic meditation and rigorous yogic discipline, taught by the sage, he seemed to gradually understand the tongue of the earth, the language of roots, the sigh of clouds at dawn. He listened until the forest whispered its secrets: how a snake’s flicking tongue asked for space, how a droplet on a leaf sang of longing to fall, how a rock mourned centuries of rain. He, in time, spoke back, but softly, humbly. To an ant, “Tell me your burden.” To a tree, “Tell me your ancient hope.” It was a study but felt more like magic, it was science but seemed more like fiction, and it was a honed skill but also a superpower.
His arrogance crumbled in dew and dusk. After two decades, the forest had stripped him bare, and he emerged purified. He no longer craved gold or praise. His voice was no longer harsh but quiet and sure. When the yogi died, on a quiet dawn in 1980, slipping out like mist, Bhaskor sat under the same banyan root and wept. The forest wept too. He took the yogi’s simple staff and stepped from the jungle into a world transformed.
He walked, first, to Calcutta, then across West Bengal, and finally into Bangladesh. He was old now, hair white like cotton, eyes luminous. The cities he entered had grown monstrous, skyscrapers, cars, electric wires cutting the sky. He smelled petrol, heard horns, and saw electric signals. He listened.
He found, to his wonder, that he could now understand any voice: the trembling of walls, the sigh of rivers, the cry of the city. A wailing infant in Dhaka asked, “Why am I hungry?” He understood and brought food. A cracked pavement groaned and asked, “Why do you trample me?” He raised its slab. A journalist’s pen wept over injustice; he whispered guidance. People started to whisper about the folklore of the forest-sage who could speak with anyone and anything. Those who saw believed, yet many did not. From 1980 onward, his journeys threaded through India and Bangladesh, through villages and cities, doing small miracles of understanding.
He arrived in Dhaka in 1983, just as Ershad’s martial law was tightening its grip. The protests echoed; the people’s pain shook the city. Bhaskor alighted at a street corner. A young student with a bleeding forehead groaned, “They beat me for chanting slogans.” The wise sage placed his palm on the wound; the blood stilled. He bent to a streetlamp whose wires snapped; he spoke to the metal, soothed the spark. The wires reconnected. Those who saw, gasped. Word spread: the forest-sage had come, some believed, while many did not.
In the winter of 1984, a poison wind rose over Bhopal, from the Union Carbide Factory, silent, unseen, unholy. It crept through windows and throats, turning breath into fire. Bhaskor walked into that night like a candle into a storm, listening. The gas spoke in agony, the walls in fear. Kneeling by a dying tree, he whispered to the air, and the wind gentled. By dawn, the fumes had thinned, though many died, many were saved, and some said an old man had taught the sky to breathe again.
When floods in 1988 submerged 60% of Bangladesh, Bhaskor moved across submerged villages, floated through rice fields turned waterways, spoke to waterlogged houses, guided boats to find stranded mothers, retrieved submerged letters of lost loved ones, and reunited heirs. The word of a super-sage providing relief spread, and while some believed and some remained sceptical, most of the people remained ignorant of his existence.
In the backdrop of a war between India and Pakistan in 1999, in the biting snows of Kargil, where even prayers froze mid-air, Bhaskor came upon soldiers buried in frost and fury. The mountains murmured their pain to him, of sons dying on both sides, of mothers waiting beyond the border. Clutching his staff, he spoke to the snow, to the jagged rocks, to the frightened tongues of soldiers on both sides. That night, the guns fell silent for a while, as though the peaks themselves had remembered peace. There were rumours among the fighting men on both sides, “An old man, a sage, had whispered peace in the air.”
He visited Bihar in India in 2004, when floodwaters leapt across the Ganges, displacing millions. He spoke to the river, to the clay, to the rising currents. He guided embankments to hold, roads to lift, and shelters to stand firm. He stayed in refugee camps, hearing children’s lullabies, hearing parents’ regrets. He translated the famine, the hunger, into action; NGOs he touched began relief with uncanny speed.
He bore witness in 2009 during the Bangladesh Rifles revolt, a military uprising inside the ranks guarding the border. The nation held its breath. Riots, fears, confusion. Bhaskor entered the camps. He listened to the frightened voices of soldiers, the desertion of loyalty, the cry of wounded mothers. He meditated in smoky barracks, emerged and whispered peace. The mutiny ended with fewer casualties than feared.
Between 2018 and 2022, as Bangladesh adopted “Digital Bangladesh” and raced into modernisation, Bhaskor appeared in small towns resisting change. In a village in Rangpur, the old well, cracked and silent, whispered to him. He touched its rim, listened; he guided engineers to restore it. The village rejoiced; water sprang. In border regions, he mediated between communities whose rivers had shifted, whose fields eroded. He translated the murmurs of land into legal claims and peace pacts.
A border dispute flared in 2025; Bhaskor walked across the boundary, stepping over the river, and stood between patrols. He asked the river to murmur its ancient flow, and asked barbed fences to bend in mercy. The diplomats paused; the dispute eased.
In a small hill village of Arunachal Pradesh, a radio crackled an encrypted message in Meitei, in Khasi, in Bodo, all languages he understood now. A young child on the border whispered, “Why do borders wound us?” He bent and said, “Listen, the wind and the rain have no border.” He walked into the mist, onward to the next village and the next city, continuing to do good. By 2025, whispers of his existence travelled across the lands. Some believed and many did not.
Sitting under the shade of a coniferous tree somewhere in the Himalayan range, Bhaskor Mollik reflected on his life’s journey as an arc of a man shaped by fire, reborn in silence, and resurrected again into service. He realised that a talent, however mystical, is not a crown to wear but a burden to share. He had changed not by halting his vices by force, but by dissolving them in humility, and learning to listen – first inward, then outward, then everywhere.
He wrote down in his journal, “Greed withers; generosity blooms. A heart hardened by privilege may crack under loss, but from that crack, unknown paths can open. My extraordinary gift was not to dominate but to translate, the scream of injustice, the sigh of earth, the plea of persons unheard. Do not use your talents for wealth or applause, but for healing, for connection, for reconciliation.”
In the latter half of 2025, at an unbelievable age of 125, forest-sage Bhaskor Mollick left India’s soil at dawn, crossing with his trekking staff, bound for Nepal, Bhutan, and Myanmar. New worlds awaited, climate crises, refugee flows, epidemic whispers. In the years to come, he would listen to all. In every village, every city, every torn borderland, he would ask the same: “What speaks? What listens? What heals?” And always, he would answer: “We are more than what we say; the world sings in silence, waiting for us to hear.” Some believe, and many still do not.
Copyright © 2025 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
These stories are Free and if you have found something here that stayed with you, some of my other books are now available in print and digital editions. They gather longer journeys, quieter questions, and stories that continue beyond this page.
You may also like to read my1st Published novel now available on Kindle and Paperback versions.
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
This is an extraordinary and profoundly moving narrative! 🌿
Your storytelling breathes life into Bhaskor Mollik, tracing a remarkable arc from privilege and arrogance to humility, wisdom, and transcendence. The level of detail—from the scents of Jessore in 1900 to the chaos of Partition, the Sundarbans’ mangroves, and modern crises in Bangladesh and India—immerses the reader completely. I especially admire how you weave historical events, human suffering, and environmental landscapes seamlessly into Bhaskor’s journey, making him feel not only like a sage but also like a living bridge between eras, cultures, and elements.
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Dear Verma’ji, thank you for being the first person to comment on my latest story. The first comment is always very special. And as always you have felt the story so deeply, it’s clearly reflecting from your analysis. I am so happy that you liked this tale. I wanted it to be the story of a superhero, but of a very different kind than the usual Marvel and DC. Am really glad how the story turned. Especially the way I was able to include the real life events, by the grace of God all worked out.
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I believe, Universe have ears 👂 same way out ears must be open to hear the sounds and rhythms of good and warnings. Glad to read this post and it will open the senses and thinking or observing methods. Keep writing more thought provoking stories. Have a wonderful week end. 🍀🌿🙏
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Thank you so much for your beautiful comment. I am so glad that the story provoked your thoughts – you are absolutely right, we must keep our senses open to hear everything around us. Unfortunately most of the time we are more busy in presenting our own point of view.
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Well written Trisikh. The way you have woven the incidents in the story it may act as a chronicle of events in future. 🙂
What strikes me most about this story is how it traces Bhaskor Mollik’s entire life as a journey of transformation. From a life of privilege and arrogance to hardship, and finally to profound wisdom and empathy, every chapter of his life whether personal suffering, rigorous discipline, or acts of service, builds toward the insight he draws at the close: that greed withers while generosity blooms, that a hardened heart can crack to reveal unknown paths, and that extraordinary gifts are not for domination or applause, but for healing, understanding, and connecting the unheard voices of the world. The detailed exploits give weight and credibility to his reflections, making his concluding lessons deeply moving, inspiring, and timeless.
Must add, I was wondering did Bhakor marry? What happened to his family. And then I realised you have so fluently said it in all :” his lineage extinguished”! You have knack with words, keep writing, stay blessed.
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Dear Ravindra, I am so happy that you adore the story so much, especially the way I have woven the incidents in the story. And the way Bhaskor’s life’s journey evolved. When I write I am not sure how the story would ultimately turn, I am so glad that this one resonated so well with a thoughtful reader like you.
Yes, through the single line “his lineage extinguished” I cleared the doubt of his family’s survival. As a short story writer, I constantly fight with space. How much to write, what to keep, and what to eliminate. It’s a constant fight to condense a story. When writing a novel, we have the freedom of writing as much as we want, but with short stories, space is always the challenge. So I try to find these kinds of short (lesser word) solutions.
Thank you a million times for your constant appreciation and encouragement. I shall keep on writing these stories.
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🙏
Aum Shanti
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Thank you so much.
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Such a magnificent story and fascinating recounting of India’s history. Thank you,
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Thank you so much. Nothing makes my day better, than when someone smiles reading one of my stories.
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Wow. Your writing is so meaningful and profound.
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Dear Cindy, thank you so much. Always treasure your appreciation and constant support, and encouragement.
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A wonderful and interesting story. I loved it. Thanks for sharing. Happy Friday 🌞🌎🇪🇦
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You are most welcome. Thank you so much for liking my story so much. A great Friday to you too.
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Thank you so much, Trishikh, for the beautifully written tale of inspiration and wisdom. As always, your words bring the story to life with all the sounds, scents of the events and places across the subcontinent. For that reason, it is a page turner, interesting and amusing, and also a lesson on how to lead a good, worthwhile life.
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, it’s always a pleasure to receive your appreciation. I am so happy that you liked my latest tale. It really makes my day worthwhile to know that my stories powerfully convey the sights and sounds of the places described, and carry a moral lesson.
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Thank you, Trishikh, for your beautiful reply. You are more than welcome!
Joanna
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What a captivating and beautiful story! It is such a joy to read, and there are so many lessons to be learned on the way. Thanks for sharing such an extraordinary tale of wisdom that unites not just nature and mankind, but all there is, Trishikh!
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Dear friend, it is my pleasure to be able to write this story by the grace of God. I must thank you for liking this story so much. Appreciation works as a miracle for my writing engine, and I can never have enough of it. Do visit my website again and read some of the other stories. I am sure that you would love many of them.
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Thank you for your kind words, dear friend.🙏 I’m certainly looking forward to read more of your wonderful stories.
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It is a real honor for me.
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The profound polish of this narrative, reflecting on Bhaskor Mollik’s journey, compels one to a moment of self-reflective pause.✨
What resonates most deeply is the terrifying realization that absolute loss was the only path to genuine gain. As a reader, I must confront the uncomfortable truth that my own smaller arrogances—my daily entitlements, my refusals to truly listen—are the very “teak cradles” that obstruct spiritual growth. Bhaskor’s life insists that privilege is a form of blindness, and that the highest talent isn’t something acquired, but the arrogant self that must be dissolved—first in the acid of despair, then in the slow dew of humility.🙌
His transformation from demanding “Do I ask your counsel, fool?” to quietly asking an ant “Tell me your burden” is a mirror. It forces one to ask: What silent plea am I trampling over today? Am I seeking to dominate a conversation, or am I listening for the “sigh of the earth” in my own chaotic, urban existence?
The story acts as a profound challenge: I must learn to hear the language of roots in my own life—the essential, fundamental needs—before the universe decides to use the fire of Partition to force me into silence. It’s a sobering reminder that generosity blooms only where greed has withered.
**You got me thinking… and that too over the weekend… 😄
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Dear Aparna, your discovery of the importance of the statement “absolute loss was the only path to genuine gain,” is very commendable It is a key underlying lesson in the story.
Not only you, but me, and many others are guilty of not being good listeners. It is human nature to always want to express rather than deeply understand. No matter how understanding we become, there is always room for improvement.
I must thank you profoundly for giving such a deep thought to my story. Your analysis adds worth to the story, and your comment becomes a part of the tale.
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I m super glad 🤗
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Thank you for sharing my short story on your website. So glad that you liked the story. Much appreciate the support.
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How did you reach 120 views and 20 plus comments 🤔
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I have organically and gradually developed a fan base over 4 years. My fans really like to read my short stories. I release a story every Friday, and those who follow me eagerly wait to read my story enjoy, like, comment, and reblog.
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Wow. Very few people would bother to huge such an amazing feedback. It will really help. Yes, WordPress is not gamified for instant likes and engagement like Substack or social media it does want a lot of work. Thanks 😊.
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You also need to visit a lot of other people’s blogs, read their stuff, like and comment, and slowly build a friendship. It takes time, but if you truly believe in your content, you will gradually find fans who will stick for life. Do not do many posts. Of course it depends on the nature of your blog. Since I write short stories, I publish one story per week, and that works for me. I know someone, who does one post in a year, and it works for him too. And there are many who post everyday. Whatever you do don’t overdo.
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Dear Ned, thank you so much for promoting my story in your blog. I always treasure your support.
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We’re building walls; we should be building bridges . . .
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That is so true, if only the builders could understand, the would certainly be a better place.
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this was an astounding story, wow they just get better and better.
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Dear William, Thank you so much. So happy that ypu liked this story of mine. Read more of my older stories. I am sure that you would love many of them. And keep an eye out for a new story of mine every Friday. Sorry for the late reply, some of your comments ended in my spam folder, I have rectified it though.
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I love your stories, thank you, will read some of the older ones, thanks for your kind reply and yes a lot of my comments are going into spam?
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I am so happy to have a dedicated admirer of my short stories like you. Your comments on my stories will not go to spam anymore. I made sure of that.
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thanks friend.
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beautiful story!🙏🏼❤️🙏🏼thanks!!!
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You are most welcome. It is I who must thank you for always liking my stories so much.
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The arrogance of humankind has led us to the brink of self-destruction. Thanks for this vision of hope built on humility, connection, and generosity.
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Dear Rosaline, like you I too believe, that arrogance is the root cause of many evils. When one learns to shed it, only then can one evolve.
Thank you for liking my story. Always treasure your appreciation.
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Once saturated with all that mammon can provide rarely there be an escape. But judgement knocks or destiny prevails and the ear becomes open. His adversity brought refinement being no coincidence. Freely he receives and freely he gives yet none being his but fulfilled by finding rest within the energy itself all the while moving mountains. Truly inspiring and thought provoking. Thank you Trishikh
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Dear friend, this is a beautiful and deep thought reflection. Thank you so much.
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Good story.
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Thank you so much.
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Yet another wonderful tale.. thank you.. ❤️
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Dear Fiona, thank you so much. So happy that you liked the story.
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Your tale flowed with such gentle poetry, that it left with the desire it may continue forever.
The lesson I take away from your story is, that those who do not live for themselves, do not regard a high position as honour, nor be ashamed of poverty and failure, willing to transform and realise their selves, will endure.
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This is a very apt take from my story. I like the lesson you have derived. It really resonated with me too. Most of the time when I write a story, I do not realise the depth it actually creates. Am happy that my stories have the potential to touch human hearts and minds. Thank you dear friend.
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Wow! You have surpassed yourself in this story transcending borders and ages. Bashkor Mollick reminded me of the deathless Babaji who can only be seen when he wishes to be seen. If only Bhashkor Mollick could transcend continents!!
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So happy that you liked this story of mine. Yes, “If only Bhaskor Mollick could transcend continents.” Sorry for the late reply. This comment of of yours ended up inmy spam box, have rectified it though. Now your comments would not end up there.
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After a long time, Trishikh, I got the chance to read one of your stories again. I wasn’t aware that you had become a regular contributor now, as I haven’t been receiving notifications about your posts. Anyway, it seems I have quite a few stories to catch up on.
Coming to the present story, I truly appreciated Bhaskor’s transformational journey. The circumstances and his chance encounter with the sage in Sundarbans played a pivotal role in shaping his path. There’s much to learn from this narrative. However, the part about Bhaskor’s miraculous powers, especially those tied to real events, felt a bit exaggerated to me.
On December 2, 1984, I was in Bhopal myself, and I witnessed the immense suffering of both humans and animals on the streets. Sadly, there was no miracle that saved them. Even after four decades, many continue to bear the consequences of that tragedy.
I hope you’ll forgive me, Trishikh, for speaking so candidly. I’ve always been one of your ardent admirers, but the mention of Bhopal brought back some very painful memories.
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Dear KK, yes I stopped writing for nearly a year, due to many reasons, however from July 2025 onwards, got back the zeal and have been writing and polishing one story very diligently every Friday. Well, now that you know that I am back, you can certainly catch up with my many stories, that you have missed. I have always looked forward to your comments, and they really give me a lot of joy.
Yes, you are right about this story being a bit of an exaggeration with the events. I simply wanted to make Bhaskor a superhero, who reduced the problems a bit, that does not mean that the deadly events that happened were less tragic. Yes, the Bhopal incident was one of the worst human tragedies of our times. I can’t even imagine the experience you must have had to witness it first hand.
I am really thankful to you for this beautiful comment. I really look forward to discussions rising from my stories, they are meant to peak interest, stir emotions and memories.
Welcome back to reading my stories. I am so thankful to God for our literary friendship.
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Thank you so much, Trishikh, for your gracious reply. It will be my endeavour to read your stories one by one. You’re welcome, always!
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Dear KK, you are most welcome. I really look forward to you reading my stories.
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To purify the soul one must walk through fire. Amazing wisdom learnt through Bhaskor’s life. True wealth lies inside the heart. People get distracted by so much mis-information that exists in this world of illusion.
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Dear Sumita, you are so right, “True wealth lies inside the heart.” I absolutely agree to it. We are all born rich, we just need to discover the richness within our own selves.
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There is so much to taste in this platter of life. Everything has its reason and utility.
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So well said.
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😊
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Really Loved this !! ♥️ Keep Writing..
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Thank you so much. Yes, the idea is to write a story every week till I can. Let’s see, how many I can in my lifetime.
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Nice work and enjoyed the descriptions.
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Dear Savitha, thank you so much for liking the story, especially the descriptions.
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An absolutely spellbinding story, Trishikh. I believe!
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Dear Stella, thank you so much. So happy that the story resonated so well with you.
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♥️ I really believe these yogis exist… beautifully written… you can watch a movie .. but reading your stuff transports you there ! 🙏
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That is so true, I also believe superhuman capabilities do exist within each and every one of us, only waiting to be unleashed.
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I’m still not sure he deserved to be saved, but you have me thinking!. The yogi would know…
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Dear Jacqui, he got a second chance, and thankfully he did not ruin it the 2nd time. Many of us get multiple chances in our lives, but most of the time we get back to our bad old ways.
Thank you for always liking my stories so much.
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Wow!! Good story!
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Thank you so much Daisy
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What a profound and soul-stirring story! Bhaskor Mollik’s journey from arrogance to awakening is written with such grace and depth. Every line feels alive — like poetry breathing through history. Truly mesmerizing. 🌿✨
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Dear Friend, thank you so much for appreciating this short story of mine. Nothing gives me more joy than when someone enjoys one of my stories. I am so happy that my writing felt like poetry to you, and you liked the way history is blended into it.
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Trishikh (( ❤ )) … Amazing and I really don’t have enough words (for once) to say how much I loved this masterpiece !!! Coming away feeling hopeful, refreshed, and renewed with purpose ~ Well done x 2025 !!!!!
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I am so happy that this story gave you so much hope, refreshed and renewed you. After all the best of stories never fail to inspire us. Releasing my next story in the next hour, keep an eye out and enjoy.
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Well written and engaging. A pleasure to read from start to finish.
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Thank you.
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