Nirbindra… it's not a word. Not a thing. Not an object. Not even a living being. And yet, it exists — maybe. Maybe not.
It's not something you can see, or touch, or even describe. But somehow… we all know it.
It's like it's inside us — but sometimes it feels like it's outside. Or maybe it's in nothing at all.
Like a feeling. Like sorrow, or love, or anger. You don't know where those live. In your heart? In your mind? Or just floating somewhere in the space between? You only know they're there — because you feel them.
Nirbindra is like that. You don't know if it's really there, but it moves you. A breeze through your chest when nothing's around. A sudden stillness in a loud place. A name that you never heard but somehow remember.
Some say it's a memory from before memory. Others say it's something we lost the moment we were born.
I don't know what it is. But when I look at the sky too long, or when silence goes too deep — I feel it again.
And that's enough to make me wonder… what if Nirbindra was never supposed to be found — because it never left?
....................
Then again… Nirbindra.
No one really knows what it is. Still, they choose to seek it.
No one knows where to find it —
Where it lies, where the journey begins,
Where it ends, if it even ends.
Is it in the heart? The brain? The navel?
Or somewhere in the body?
Was it part of us, all along?
No one knows why we chase it.
Why search for it?
Why believe in its existence?
We have so much already — do we even need it?
Will it ever appear? Or is it just a mirage —
Like water dancing in a dry desert?
Still, they wait for something.
Something that might whisper to them… about it.
No one knows who created this word.
Where it came from.
Was it made by someone?
Was it built from memory,
Or did it just surface —
Like a dream from the deep subconscious,
Or from somewhere even beyond our reach?
Yet… they still choose to speak of it.
Still, the word exists.
No one knows how to find it.
But they say it's in everything —
Yet still choose not to see it.
And when they walk, a path appears.
But which way to go?
Even those who understand… hesitate.
They stop.
They turn away.
No one knows.
And no one can answer it properly.
There are too many questions like this.
And the answers?
Always like smoke — shifting, avoiding,
Never touching the real thing.
No one tells the truth.
Or maybe…
They don't know it either.
Then suddenly, a voice from outside breaks the silence.
"Hey, you all go to eat. go go..."
It was an old woman.
And the boy — maybe seven, maybe nine —
shouted out with frustration:
"Granny! You always do this!
You stop the story just when it's getting interesting!"
He pouted, running off to dinner.
"I'm coming back after food! Don't skip the ending!" "we will be granny."
..........................
Granny said gently, "Alright, little ones go."
Seated around her were seventeen boys and eight girls, all watching her with quiet anticipation. When they saw her speaking, they stood up and said, "Granny, wait for us—we'll come back quickly to hear the rest!" She nodded with a knowing smile.
"Come quickly," she said softly, her gaze lifting toward the moon hanging low above the forest. "Tonight is the day. It will start again."
The moon looked same as usual .
Just then, someone tugged at the edge of her robe. She turned and saw a little boy—barely seven—laughing, holding out a warm, steamed potato with a shy grin. Granny smiled as she took it.
"Does it still hurt?" she asked gently.
He shook his head. Sitting nearby and started to peel his own potato, looked up and signed with his hands, "What will come again?"
Granny didn't answer right away. Instead, she chuckled—a soft, strange sound that hung in the air like an old song. "Time will tell," she whispered with a smile.
Then only eating sound last.
...........................
The peace was broken when a group of little ones burst into the hut, eyes narrowed.
"There he is again—that rag boy," one of them growled. "Granny, why do you let him in? He stole two potatoes from Uncle's stall!"
Granny's voice was firm. "Hey, chup... I gave him those two."
The boys stared at her. "Why are you always saving this child?" "yes, granny is lying." "Granny is always..." She smiled at them but didn't reply.
....................................................
Granny waved her hand. "Hey, you little—go outside, go, go…"
The boy didn't protest. He slipped out the crooked door like smoke, the way he always did when the others looked at him too long. The children avoided him like a plague — not out of cruelty, but fear. Like touching him might leave a mark.
Then came the noise.
A voice full of rage:
"You came again? Didn't I say—don't enter this village again! First your mother, then your whole family, and now you come for the rest of us?"
Doors creaked open. Feet shuffled across the dust. The village spilled out into the dim streetlight, watching — some hiding behind curtains, others with stones in hand.
A few adults surrounded him. One of them struck.
Another shouted, "Get out, demon child!"
Granny came limping out, barefoot and breathless. "Let him go!" she cried, her voice thin but firm. "He won't come again. Just let him be."
Someone turned on her. "Why do you always protect him, Granny?"
"That bastard ate his whole family," another muttered, loud enough for all to hear.
Granny didn't flinch. "So? You going to kill a child because you think you know what happened?"
The man growled but dropped his hand. "Hmph. Go, then. If I see you again, boy, I'll bury you in a pit so deep even your shadow won't crawl out."
The boy bent down, snatched the half-eaten potato from the dirt, and ran.
A few watched him vanish into the trees.
Some spat. Others looked away.
But the air was thinner now — like the night had swallowed something and left its teeth behind.
Inside, the children returned to their spots on the floor, silent. Granny sat down slowly, her hands trembling just slightly.
The man's voice echoed faintly from outside. "I just took a curse on myself. I'll go bathe so to remove it. Granny, start the story — I'll catch up."
She smiled to herself.
And then, as if something inside her clicked back into place, she straightened. Her voice changed — younger now, steadier.
"Kalaḥ ārabhyate." she whispered, almost sacred.
Then louder: "Now… where were we?"
Someone among the children asked, unsure:
"Granny… why does no one ever tell the real answer?"
"Who will say it? And who will you hear it from? Those who went looking for it... they vanished like smoke. And those who came back — they never really found the real thing.
The ones who know, they can't say. So from whom will we get the answer?"
A boy muttered, "By the deity."
Granny let out a strange laugh — not just hers, but layered, like another woman's voice echoed behind it.
"Ha... ha... deity? Gods? Monsters? They all went searching for it. But those who found it... never returned. No one knows what it truly is. Everyone just avoids it."
Someone near the fire asked softly, "Then... is it cursed?"
"Cursed?" Granny said, leaning slightly forward. "Or maybe it's blessed beyond understanding. Sometimes, a blessing too big feels like a curse."
Another voice — quieter, hesitant — whispered, "Have you seen it?"
Granny didn't answer right away.
Instead, she turned her head slowly, her eyes reflecting the waxlight.
"I saw something once. Not with these eyes... but with the part of me that dreams with the eyes open."
A girl clutched her shawl tighter. "What did it look like?"
"I don't know if it had a shape," Granny said. "Or if it was just the feeling... like forgetting your own name. Like standing still, but the world spins backward."
Someone chuckled nervously. "You're trying to scare us."
Granny leaned closer. "I'm not trying."
Then - the waxlight flickered... and died.
The room sank into thick silence.
A sudden gust of wind whispered through the cracks in the walls.
And before anyone could move —
A streak of lightning tore through the sky outside. even through there was no cloud.
For the first time that night, they saw Granny's face clearly.
One half — young, ageless, haunting.
The other — wrinkled and old, like a woman well past her nineties.
No one had time to scream.
Because a scream came first — from somewhere else.