There is a well right across my own backyard.

For ‘forefathers’, we have been fetching water from there;

And when I peep into it,

I can see the water is still there.

It is not bone-dry or undrinkable

as my son, Bidrohi tells it to be.

Yet I don’t know why he has to go to the river

to fetch the water.

It is ever-changing, ever-moving.

We don’t know where it comes from

or where it flows to.

But Bidrohi trusts it more. Not just likes.

Trusts.

“It is so fresh”, he tells.

“And it has fish too at times”

“And if you are lucky, you can get diamond-shaped stones too”

His eyes glitter as he tells how

Monolota caught a big fish the other day.

“She was dancing with joy”, he shouts.

I asked if she liked it.

“Monolota doesn’ eat fish. And besides, the fish was dead”

I stare at Bidrohi in amazement.

Such worldly intricacies is beyond my grasp.

What am I to do with the fish and diamond-shaped stones!

I sigh.

All I need is the water.

There was a well right across my own backyard.