"Where the River Whispers: The Autobiography of a Fisherman

“My boat—scarred but steadfast—has carried more stories than the river itself.”

I am a boatman, a fisherman, a river’s son.

Born on the silted lap of Lingutia, a village in Mehendiganj, cradled by the mighty Meghna River, my soul has always floated between tides and time. I am no poet, but my life—if you listen close enough—rhymes with resilience and regret, memory and mist.

My earliest memories are not of toys or schoolbooks, but of nets drying in the sun and the gentle creak of our wooden boat rocking with the current. My hands, even as a boy, smelt of river and rope. When others learned to write alphabets, I learned how to throw a net so it landed like a whisper on water.

School? That was a distant island I never reached. The river was my classroom, and hunger my teacher. My father handed me an oar before I even understood what the horizon meant. He would say, “The river provides, but only if you respect her.” And so I did.

For years, my days began before the sun stretched its arms, and ended when the stars blinked over the Meghna. I would row my boat into the river’s belly, cast my nets, wait in silence, sometimes in song. Some days, the river was kind. Other days, I returned with empty baskets and a heavier heart. But she never truly abandoned me.

The Fisherman and His Tools

My boat—my trusted, battered companion—has a soul of its own. I’ve patched her hull so many times I’ve lost count. She has taken lovers to meet in secret, carried mourners to funerals, and ferried pregnant women to clinics in storms. She’s been a fishing boat by dawn, a ferry by noon, and a resting place by twilight.

And the net—that tender, tangled web—has also seen its share of repairs, just like my dreams. Each tear stitched with hope. I’d often lay it like a prayer across the waters, and some days, it answered.

People and Prices

Selling fish was an art in itself. Some buyers would haggle till my pride bled. A few kind souls paid fair; others, not so. I remember once asking a little more during the Eid season, and a man scowled, accusing me of greed. He didn’t know I had nothing but rice and salt left at home, no oil for cooking, no kerosene for light.

Still, I smiled. The river had taught me patience.

But when the catch was good—silver hilsa glittering in my net like stars caught from the night sky—I became the village’s favorite guest. People would call me “bhai,” offer tea, and invite me to sit. On those days, I felt rich.

And with that money, I bought salt, lentils, oil, kerosene, soap, sometimes even a piece of sweet for my granddaughter. Life was never lavish. It was just enough to keep floating.

The Erosion Years

But the river—ah, she is both mother and monster.

Each year, she crept closer to our homes.

Erosion. A word too soft for the pain it caused.

I watched helplessly as entire portions of Lingutia were devoured by the Meghna. Houses, trees, even the very ghat where I once tied my boat disappeared into her belly. I shifted, rebuilt, and shifted again. We learned not to cry when the soil vanished under our feet.

Sometimes I think the river was trying to teach us not to get too attached to land, to permanence. Everything flows. Everything goes.

Passengers, Faces, and Echoes

For a time, my boat was a khoya boat—ferrying people across narrow canals, when the fishing wasn’t enough. I met all kinds of people. Silent ones, talkative ones, angry, grateful, heartbroken. There was once a boy who cried the whole way across the river, carrying nothing but a photograph. I never asked, but I’ve wondered ever since.

People left pieces of their stories in my boat—forgotten shawls, tear marks on the wood, sometimes laughter that echoed long after they stepped off. My boat remembers them all.

Now I Am Old

“Now I sit by the river that raised me—my hands tremble, but my soul still sails

Today, I am no longer the strong man who could cast a net with a single swing. Age has made my hands tremble and my back ache. The young call me “Chacha.” I smile, sit on the edge of the ghat, and watch the river flow—sometimes like a lullaby, sometimes like a war cry.

My hut, patched with tin and memory, stands just beside the river. When it rains hard, the thunder from the Meghna sounds like old drums from a battle I’m still fighting. But my fight now is quieter—against loneliness, against time.

The same boat still survives—repaired, weathered, and scarred. The same net, now thinner, still catches a few fish. But the real net is memory. It holds everything.

The River and I

I have given my life to this river.

And in return, she has taken, given, reshaped me.

We are no longer two beings—we are one story, told in two voices.

The river whispers my name in her waves.

And when I’m gone, I know she’ll carry it forward.

Final Words

If you ever pass through Mehendiganj, and see a hunched man near a small wooden hut beside the river, wave at him.

He might not hear you, but his boat will.

And if you sit quietly near the Meghna at dusk, you just might hear the river whisper,

"There once lived a fisherman here who loved me more than life itself."

Reader’s Question:

Have you ever felt so connected to a place that even time couldn’t take it away from you?