River water has a sound. If you hear it. Just filtrate the rest in the clutter of many. The water had lapping effect on the soil. You feel like eating it. River soil has a taste that is better as an after taste. He has never tasted earth. We all taste earth, I thought. Chalk when we drew on slates. The chalk we used on board again has a different taste. Grainy. The chalk for our small slates were better. Refined like chocolate. It always melted in the mouth for the aftertaste.

I sit and wait for him to come to me. He is also carrying my bag. I kept it on the dry land. He calls me nona meye, salty belle. He tastes me and he has never tasted soil he said. River soil has a different taste. It tastes nona, salty. He comes and sits beside me. He says this is not his Ichamoti. It has no sound. I tell him, look at that boat, it is carrying bamboos from our land. Our father's land. We are descendants of the expatriates. We are now a citizens of the world. We sit on one side of the shore and we realise the other side is where we were to be born. But they made us the citizens of the world.

I tell him. Filter the sounds. Your Ichamoti speaks. She is silent. When it rains we will have both the banks flooded. It will run then. Now it sleeps. Listen hard. He smiles at me. Yes, he says. The sun is setting behind us. There is a rice field near the mound where we sit. Our boat is tied somewhere, silently moving listening to the voice of the sleeping Ichamoti.

I see him, his nona meye, I see him hearing his Ichamoti. He feels annoyed at the fluorescent advertisement on the urinal walls at the banks. I have not seen it this way, he says. It was different. This was the first time he has seen Ichamoti. His camera wasn't working. He fidgets with his camera for some time. He has taught me anger was a positive energy. We make revolutions when we are angry. We move when we shout. Like his Ichamoti in spate.

I see him and I see the sunset. I see little pieces of paper flying in the sky. They fall in the lapping river and they are wet. They don't get wet. They have a coat of wax on them. They are floating. He picks all the pieces up one by one. He has always picked up these pieces since he always knew himself. I look at them. He shows me. I see more similar little pieces flying towards him. He carefully picks up each one of them. He says he takes them and once he has enough, he always makes small paper boats with them and floats them in himself. They have a wax coating. They never drown.

I am curious. I see the sun making waves in his affection for the wax coated papers. I see him salty for the wax coated tiny pieces of sheets. I take a look at them. I look intently. I bend forward to see. I am sure I have seen them somewhere. I take all the pieces and I see them again. I am surprised the papers always find him to fly to.

We are now walking back and I am smelling a familiarity in the river. I have seen the papers somewhere. I am restless as I cannot remember. I see the oar and I see mud on it. The oar digs onto the shore to propel the boat forward. I envy the oar. It eats wet soil everyday. I scoop the soil with my fingers and I ask him to taste it. He is quizzical. He asks me who eats soil. I am surprised. When water falls on dry soil the smell will automatically make you eat it. Especially river soil. This soil tastes the best. I have tasted burnt soil, chalk- two different types of chalk; one that writes on the board and one we use on our slates, the soil that goddesses are made of- this is the same taste as that soil but we will definitely find a different taste in Ichamoti's soil. He tastes it and he smiles at me. I am his nona meye. He knows that. He is tasting me.

When I am alighting the boat I see the papers he is keeping them neatly in his pocket. I see a memory. I see myself opening a tiffin box. I see my small me trying hard to eat a boiled egg with a banana and two slices of bread everyday. I see a small piece of paper, that wrapped salt in it for the boiled egg. My small I dips the egg in it and takes bites of it. The waxed coated sheet of paper I then throw it in the dustbin.

I look at him and I look at the papers and I see my fret over the same food over and over again and I hear me shouting at my mother. I did not even realise that these papers are those wheat bread covers my mother once neatly tore from the sides and put salt in it for me. He smiles and says he has tasted the papers once. They had salt in it. I smile at him.

The papers, now form small boats, in his arms. I look at him and I say, 'eijey amar ichamotir mati ektu bhalobasha dibi?'

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