Gloomy morning. The sky is pale with smoky clouds. A sapling of the Naul Jam tree stands like a statue next to the koltala. Next to it is a middle-aged jackfruit tree with many branches. Four jackfruits the size of a peacock's belly are hanging upside down on four separate branches.

A very lonely crow on a mango branch, calling incessantly, "Ka Ka." Its inquisitive eyes look here and there. It soon finds its lost companion. That call falls on the tin roof with a loud clang.

A statue-like hawk has climbed the kitchen.

In the gradually darkening haze, in the deepening darkness, everything near and far seems surreal. Seven in the morning is mistaken for seven in the evening.

A rogue wind seems to rise from somewhere, pressing on the wings of the wishful. The stubborn desire is fulfilled, it makes a noise of noise. It makes a noise, it makes a noise. It attacks the village of clouds. The group of clouds, endangered by the wind, flees. The invading wind allows itself to be carried away on that path.

This book is the story of a piece of cloud and that invading wind.