It was another wintry Monday morning. While everyone was busy rushing to their respective workplaces, Hirendra sat with his old radio and a cup of tea, with no sugar. Arati, his only daughter, didn’t get a leave for the day and had to leave early for work. The whole house was echoing with Rabindra Sangeet, and it smelled of freshly fried malpua and pan-fried pitha (names of some authentic Bengali dishes), for it was Poush Sankranti (a Bengali festival).
Hirendra looked outside the window of his two-story building and observed how times had changed, how the very familiar street looked like a strange place. There was something about the wind, the people, but Hirendra couldn’t actually pinpoint what it was. The last time he had spent quality time with his family—Arati and his wife, Indubala—was on Christmas, which was less than a month ago.
Arati had gotten a week-long holiday. The street Hirendra was looking at had been decorated with fairy lights during Christmas, and people were out celebrating with their friends and family. It was something new for his old soul, but nothing could ever fill the void he was feeling today. He kept staring blankly at the old yet unfamiliar street while his eyes finally gave in to the tune of:
“Jodi puraton Prem Dhaka pore jai nobopremjale.
Jodi thaki kachakachi ,
Dekhite na pao chhayar moto acchi na acchi-
Tobu mone rekho…”
(Translation: If the old love gets shadowed by the new love/If I stay somewhere near/ If you can’t see whether like a shadow I am-/ Still remember me…)
This was written by our contributing writer, Paushali Sarkar.
Leave a Reply