মা

মা:   Here, I'm back where I was born, this land of vibrant colors and a rich history of art & literature with familiar faces and old voices. This place that holds countless memories...when I would watch the kalbaishakhi jhor (monsoon rain) with a cup of dudh cha (milk tea) in hand; when I was little, my mom and I would sneak off to the roof without telling my dad and dance in the storm. This would be followed by a hurried search for towels to dry our hair before anyone took notice. My dad wasn't one for storms or the smell of the earth after rain. He was more, "You'll catch a cold and most likely die." but in all fairness, he was also the one I ran to when I got scared of the thunder, otherwise he'd find me under the table with eyes squeezed shut and my small hands covering my ears. Every year around May, just as the rain would come, the best mangoes would also come into season. There was a tall tree full of them next to our balcony in Chittagong, this tree belonged to an old man with a pot belly who I recently learned died from a heart attack four years ago. God bless him but he wasn't pleasant, he'd never share anything that fell from his tree & so my mom and I would take matters into our own hands. We developed a tool: tying a small hand woven basket to the end of a broomstick. And when the sun would set, that's when we would start to prod the tree. Once, twice. I'd sit in the back giggling while I watched my mom trying to pick mangoes with our advanced tech and the leaves would rustle furiously in protest. She'd usually get three or four small green ones every time. And we'd make a grated mango chutney with lobon, morich & ektu chini. (Salt, pepper, & a little sugar). She was my hero. Still is, you'll see me beaming every time her many talents are brought up in conversation. Her love for poetry, Humayun Ahmed's storytelling and everything beautifully bengali is the reason I was able to foster love for the same things. From the way she puts her pen to paper to etch out an "অ" to the grace with which she sits, her legs crossed singing Tagore's আমার পরান যাহা চায় to us commoners that delve in our mediocrity, unaware and deprived. She showed me how to paint egg shells and the colorful aesthetics of bengali theatre. She took me to a bengali new year festival and bought me a flower crown, with flowers that smelled and felt and looked like real flowers even after 3 days. She bought me a peacock feather and whispered "I used to put peacock feathers between pages of a book and check after a month to see if it grew, you should try it." She showed me how to speak with a certain softness with the older men and women, to smile sweetly when someone tries to bring you down and compliment them and perhaps out of embarrassment, they'll stop. Most times, they do not. She taught me how to wash my clothes by hand and add panch phoron to my chutneys. মা became the reason for my love of bengali culture & expression. Here, I'm back where I was born, with familiar faces and old voices but there's only one that really stands out. 

ইতি, 

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