The Forest of Forgotten Songs -Nasimur Rahman

The house at the end of Shapla Lane was never quiet. Children ran through the courtyard chasing each other with sticks, the smell of paratha filled the air every morning, and the sound of laughter bounced off every wall. But among all the noise, Abbajaan and Ammanani—old, silver-haired, and full of secrets—often sat quietly on the veranda, gazing at the grey city sky that once had stars.

Abbajaan’s name was Maulvi Abdul Karim, an old man with a beard as white as winter cotton and eyes that twinkled with mischief. Ammanani, Jahannara Begum, was equally spirited, always wrapping her dupatta tightly around her head before saying something dramatic like, “When I was your age, I could climb mango trees faster than monkeys!”

Their family was huge—three sons, two daughters, and nine grandchildren. They all lived together in a big, creaky house that stood in the middle of a dusty city. Everyone was always busy. The fathers scrolled through their phones, the mothers cooked and cleaned, and the children—well, they were lost in screens, their faces glowing blue every night.

One Sunday morning, Ammanani declared, “We are turning into machines! We need to rewild ourselves.”

“Re… what?” asked their youngest grandson, Saif, peeking up from his tablet.

“Rewilding,” she said proudly. “It means finding our wild hearts again. Your Abbaajaan and I are going back to the forest where we met fifty years ago.”
Everyone stared. The forest? That sounded like something from an old fairy tale.

Abbajaan chuckled, “It’s called Bongshal Bon, near the old river bend. We used to picnic there before the city swallowed it. Now it’s mostly forgotten but maybe not lost.”

The grandchildren’s eyes sparkled. A forgotten forest? A secret place? This was better than any video game. Within hours, the family began to plan their journey.

The Journey Begins
By dawn the next day, three cars stood ready. Bags were packed with food, water, sleeping mats, and a curious collection of items that only Ammanani could think of—an old brass lantern, a box of herbal ointment, and two prayer mats.

The drive was long, bumpy, and full of excitement. The city melted away into fields of golden paddy. Birds swooped through the morning fog. Ammanani hummed old gazals from the radio days, while Abbaajaan pointed out trees like old friends.

“That’s the shimul tree,” he said. “Used to bloom like red fire when I was young.”

“And that,” said Ammanani, pointing to a distant hill, “was where your Abbaajaan along with his family first told me for marrying by climbing a tree and fell into a pond instead.”

Everyone burst into laughter, especially the kids.

After three hours, they reached what looked like an endless stretch of green. The air smelled of earth and rain. Tall trees whispered secrets, and the sound of a nearby stream echoed softly.

“Welcome,” said Abbaajaan, stepping out with his walking stick. “To Bongshal Bon.”

The Forest of Forgotten Songs
They set up their tents near the stream. The children ran barefoot, splashing water everywhere. The mothers laughed freely, and even the serious uncles forgot their phones.

Ammanani, with her dupatta flying like a banner, began collecting wildflowers. “These are nageshwar blooms,” she said. “My mother used to wear them in her hair before Eid.”

Meanwhile, Abbaajaan gathered the children under a banyan tree. “Listen carefully,” he said in a low, dramatic voice. “This forest used to be alive with songs. Birds, insects, frogs—all sang together. But when the city grew, their music faded. Some say the Forest of Forgotten Songs still exists deeper inside. Those who listen carefully can hear it.”

The children gasped. “Can we find it?” asked little Raisa, clutching his arm.

“That depends,” he said with a grin. “Are you brave enough?”

They nodded in unison. And so began their great adventure.

Into the Heart of the Wild
The group set off after lunch, led by Abbaajaan with his bamboo stick. The deeper they went, the wilder the forest grew. Vines curled like snakes, the sunlight shimmered through green canopies, and the air was alive with unseen rustles.

Saif pointed at something. “Look! A deer!”

Sure enough, a small spotted deer watched them curiously before darting away. The children squealed with joy.

Ammanani stopped to rest under a palm tree. “This forest,” she said softly, “taught us that life doesn’t rush. It flows.”

Suddenly, a strange sound echoed through the forest—a faint humming, like hundreds of flutes playing far away. The group froze.

“The songs!” whispered Raisa. “It’s real!”

They followed the sound through ferns and fallen leaves until they reached a clearing. In the middle stood a crystal-clear pond, surrounded by wild lilies. The air shimmered with the hum of bees and the chatter of unseen birds. It was as if the forest itself was singing.

Abbaajaan smiled with tears in his eyes. “This… this is what we lost in the city.”

The family stood silently, listening. The children looked at their grandparents with newfound awe. For the first time, they saw the world through their eyes—not as a place of noise and concrete, but as a living, breathing friend.

The Night Under the Stars
That night, they built a small campfire. The stars above twinkled brighter than any city light. The children toasted marshmallows while Abbaajaan told stories of his youth—how he once got lost in the same forest and found his way back by following the call of a cuckoo.

Ammanani shared her secret recipe for herbal tea made from forest leaves.

“Drink this,” she said, “and you’ll never forget the sound of the earth.”

As the fire crackled, little Raisa climbed into her grandmother’s lap. “Ammanani,” she said sleepily, “why did you want to come here?”

Ammanani smiled. “Because we forgot how to listen, my child. We forgot how to breathe with the trees. I wanted you to know that peace isn’t in silence—it’s in nature’s heartbeat.”

The family sat close together, their faces lit by the warm glow. For the first time in years, nobody looked at a screen.

The Return
The next morning, they packed up to leave. The forest seemed to wave goodbye—the breeze soft, the leaves whispering gently.

As they drove back, everyone was unusually quiet. The children stared out the window, watching the trees fade into grey buildings.

When they reached home, Saif switched off his tablet. “I think I’ll plant a tree,” he said suddenly.

Abbaajaan smiled proudly. “Then our rewilding has begun.”

From that day, the courtyard of their old house started changing. The grandchildren built a small garden. Ammanani taught them to grow mint, basil, and hibiscus. Abbaajaan carved a wooden sign that read:

“Bongshal Bon — Home Edition.”

Every evening, the family gathered under the growing shade of their new trees. They laughed, told stories, and listened to the rustle of leaves that sounded a little bit like music.

The Wild Within
Months passed, but the memory of the forest never faded. On quiet afternoons, Ammanani would still hum those forgotten tunes. Sometimes, if the wind was right, the children swore they could hear the forest singing back.

And though the city still roared beyond their walls, inside that one old house, something had changed forever. The family had found peace—not by escaping the world, but by rediscovering its wild heart.

Because sometimes, rewilding isn’t just about finding nature. It’s about finding ourselves again—under the same sky, holding the same hands, listening to the same old song that never truly ended.