Once, my great-grandfather tilled the soil, and my grandfather held the land with pride. In time, my father left Kashimpur, guided by my grandmother’s hand, and settled in Jessore, where I first opened my eyes to the world. My brothers later crossed oceans to America, chasing a brighter horizon.Yet the home we left behind never called us back. Kashimpur became a village without a dwelling for us, a place of memory rather than return. Such is the irony of life—we inherit roots only to lose them in the passage of time.This image stirs that longing: the unseen fragrance of Kashimpur, our beginnings, now hidden behind the soft veil of mist.
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