Silu's journey: How a little girl found a home at the gates of Mohamaya

It was the early 1980s when my father, Late Ruleswar Das, was posted in what was then Goalpara district, with Dhubri as its headquarters. Life was simpler then. Summers meant school holidays, and holidays often meant trips to Dhubri. We were a family of six with my parents, my three brothers Kaju, Ritu (myself), and Mithu, and our little sister Riba. We were always accompanied by our trusted driver Runu Da and Pabitra Nath, a teenage boy from Abhayapuri who worked for us and was lovingly called my mother’s fourth son. Pabitra was humble, dependable, and more like a quiet elder brother to us children than just a helping hand. Those trips were filled with temple visits, especially to the famous Mother Mohamaya Temple at Bogribari. It was on one such trip that destiny brought a little girl into our lives.


That day is still vivid in my mind. I was only a Class V student, full of mischief and ignorance, while my younger siblings, Mithu and Riba, were too small to notice much around them. During holidays, we often visited different places in and around Dhubri and sometimes even traveled to Bhutan and Cooch Behar. But that day was different, as we had gone to visit the Mother Mohamaya Temple at Bogribari. When we reached the temple and parked our vehicle near the pond, a few local Rajbongshi children, mostly Bengali-speaking, stood nearby watching us curiously. Among them was a frail little girl, barefoot, her torn frock clinging to her skinny frame. Her hair was uncombed and dusty, and her wide eyes followed us with a mix of curiosity and shyness.


 

My mother, moved by something deeper than words, bent down and asked her name. “Silu Das,” she replied softly. She told us that she came to the temple every day for bhog and that she was alive only because of the blessings of Mother Mohamaya. She was an orphan, wandering from place to place, surviving on the temple’s offerings.
After completing our worship, we headed toward our vehicle parked near the pond. That was when I noticed my parents speaking seriously with a few elders from the nearby villages. Their faces were calm but serious, and I sensed something important was happening. The villagers, touched by my parents’ kindness, told Silu she was blessed by the Goddess herself to finally find a family. My mother then turned to her gently and asked her to get into our car. That was the moment when my childish ignorance surfaced. I frowned, stepped back, and protested loudly. She was dirty, she smelled, and I did not want her anywhere near me. My mother’s words, spoken firmly yet lovingly, pierced straight into my heart as she said, “God resides in every human. Neglecting her is neglecting God.” Still, I was stubborn and even scolded Silu, who stood there silently. My elder brother Kaju, angry at my behavior, slapped me, and tears welled in my eyes, not just from the sting but from shame I could not yet understand. My father calmly stepped in, his voice gentle, saying I was only a child and ignorant of what was unfolding. That moment stayed with me forever. It was my first real lesson on compassion, and it changed the way I looked at people for the rest of my life.


And so, that very day, Silu came home with us to our rented house in Satiyantola, Dhubri, located on the banks of the Gadadhar River. She did not understand a word of Assamese, and Bengali was her only language. Our kind landlady, whom we called Macima, spoke to her and guided my parents on what needed to be done. My father was fluent in Bengali, so he could communicate with her easily. That afternoon, around three o’clock, I saw Pabitra, along with Pasu, the well-known water carrier of Satiyantola, a man everyone in the 1980s neighborhood recognized. Together, they escorted a barber to our house.


My mother placed a small stool near the tube well and gently asked Silu to sit. The courtyard was quiet except for the creak of the barber’s chair as he unpacked his tools. As he prepared to cut her hair, Silu broke into uncontrollable sobs, clinging to her messy locks and refusing to let him touch her. That was when Macima stepped forward, her voice firm but caring, scolding her in Bengali and instructing the barber not just to cut her hair but to tonsure her head completely. The soft hum of the razor filled the air as locks of tangled, dusty hair fell one by one onto the wet ground, releasing the smell of sweat and neglect. Silu’s cries echoed through the courtyard with every stroke of the razor, a heartbreaking sound that etched itself into my memory. As her scalp was revealed, ringworm patches and countless lice became visible, a shocking sight that even made the experienced barber pause with a heavy sigh. I stood silently, frozen, realizing this was not just a haircut but the first step in giving her back her dignity as a human being.


Afterward, all the males were asked to step out. My mother, Macima, and a maid carried Silu to a large tin tub in the courtyard.


I have long forgotten the maid’s name, but I still remember that she was a widow with a young son who often accompanied her. He would sit nearby and sing Runa Laila’s “Sadher Lau Banailo More Boiragi” in his sweet, high-pitched voice, filling the quiet house with music even on the most ordinary days.


Inside, Silu’s cries pierced the air as they poured mug after mug of cool water over her and scrubbed her with soap, washing away years of dirt and neglect. The sound of splashing water and her sobs echoed through the house, yet in that painful moment something tender was taking place as she was being restored to her dignity as a human being. When she finally emerged, she was wrapped in a clean cotton frock, and her freshly shaved scalp was dusted with Nycil powder, its soft fragrance replacing the smell of dust and sweat.


She was then offered a plate of warm food. My younger brother Mithy and sister Riba stood close by, watching her shyly. In a gesture that revealed her generous heart, Silu called them near and shared her food with them. My father, observing quietly, smiled and said softly, “Even though she is poor and orphaned, she carries values, a sanskar gifted to her by Mother Mohamaya herself.” My father often said that the Rajbongshi people were virtuous, humble, God-fearing, and deeply pious. Those words are still embedded in my mind, and even today I carry the same respect and feelings for the Rajbongshi community.


A few days later, my father brought home Bengali alphabet and number books to teach Silu. That started another chapter. Every evening, my mother and Macima tried their best to teach her to read and write. Silu resisted. She hated studying and begged not to be forced. She promised she would work, do anything, but not study. One day, a frustrated Macima told my mother, “ভুলেযাও, ওরসঙ্গেএটাকখনোইহবেনা,” which means “Forget it, that will never happen to her.” That was the end of her formal education.


As Silu grew older, she naturally became our little guardian. Mother often trusted her to keep an eye on us whenever she was away, and Silu took that responsibility to heart. She would sometimes refuse to serve us food if we had not studied or completed our homework, her sternness hiding a quiet love for us. Over time, she became an inseparable part of our home, not just a helper but a true member of the family. When summer ended, she moved with us to our family residence in Dergaon, where she grew into a disciplined, morally strong young woman who watched over us like an elder sister.


One day, our father’s elder cousin sister, Veseli Jethani, arrived with a young milkman named Rakhal Das. There were conversations that we children could not fully understand. A few days later, my mother and her cousin brother BharotPehadew, who was married to my father’s younger sister Xorola Pehidew, took Silu and Rakhal Da to Jorhat. When they returned, Silu was a married woman.



I remember that a few days later, with some of our relatives and a few elders present, simple arrangements were made for Silu’s departure. There was no grandeur, just a humble gathering filled with warmth and care. My father sat quietly, thoughtful as always, while my mother moved around making sure everything was ready for her. When it was time to leave, my father drove her to RakhalDa’s home at Badulipar, marking the beginning of her new life as a married woman. Before she stepped out, my mother carefully handed her a neatly folded piece of paper and softly told her to keep it safe. Years later, I understood that this was her marriage certificate. I can still see her in my mind’s eye, standing at our doorstep that day, shy and nervous, her head slightly lowered, yet carrying herself with quiet dignity. There was a mix of pride and sadness in my parents’ faces; though we were sending her into a new life, it felt like a piece of our own family was leaving with her.


Silu began her new life with dignity. She and Rakhal Da had two children, Meena and Arun.
Eventually, I left for Madras for my studies, and life carried us all in different directions. After our parents passed away, Silu would still come to our home in Dergaon, always carrying the same warmth and devotion she had shown since childhood. I will never forget the day of my elder brother Kaju’s funeral. As the rituals were performed, Silu stood there, her face streaked with tears, her sobs raw and heart-wrenching. She clutched the edge of her saree tightly and cried bitterly, saying through her tears, “What an unfortunate sister I am, having to see my brother’s funeral.” Hearing her words pierced my heart. At that moment, I realized beyond doubt that she was not just someone we had once taken in out of kindness, she was bound to us by something stronger than blood. She was truly family, a sister in every sense of the word.


Then life moved on. Work, responsibilities, and distance kept us apart, and for more than 25 years I did not see Silu. But on September 6, 2025, during an official visit to Golaghat, I finally found time to see her. She and Rakhal Da welcomed me warmly to their modest home in Badulipar. Arun was there too, though I missed seeing Meena, who had married and was living in Golaghat with her husband.


The moment Silu saw me, she froze for a second as if trying to believe her eyes, and then she rushed forward and hugged me tightly. Her tears soaked my shoulder, and her body trembled as years of distance melted away in that single embrace. It was as if time itself had folded, erasing the 25 years we had spent apart. That hug was pure love, a bond beyond blood and beyond time. I held her close, feeling the depth of that connection, and in that moment it felt divine. My parents’ words echoed in my heart, reminding me that true relationships are not written by human hands but by God Himself. Such bonds are nurtured in a realm beyond this world, watched over by Mahadev, Lord Shiva.


That day, seeing her tears and her smile, I knew for certain that love like this is rare. Silu had entered our lives as a poor, orphaned girl at the gates of a temple, but to us she became a sister, a daughter, and a protector.
My parents had planted the seed of love, and decades later, that seed stood before me as a living reminder of their compassion. Silu’s story is not just hers. It is a lesson in humanity and a reminder that family is built not only by blood but by the choices we make and the love we share.
Some people come into our lives by fate, but it is love that keeps them in our hearts forever, turning strangers into family.