Distinctiveness - Travel and Lifestyle Blog

  My father gave me a very special gift, a present handed down through the generations, and it took me years to realize it. My father had an enormous passion for writing. His works now lie scattered across Dooars, the place he loved with all his heart. He wrote of the blues hills and the pristine rivers. The carpet of tea plantations covering the land and the joys and sorrows of its people. He spoke of life, love, pains, and celebrations. I looked up to him when I wrote my first verse decades ago. My father’s words shaped lives yet managed to outlive the man himself. On this day, eleven years ago, he quietly slipped away, the notebook open and the pen sitting idly on his study desk. My father left behind a room full of books and unfinished works and a massive hole in our lives. I have long believed that everything I have written since has been meaningless. All my efforts, wasted, because he would never read them. My father would never let out a disappointed sigh upon iden...