Then, when the clouds cleared, the brass ghati on the head of Thakurji walking along the railway line gave a glimmer of sunshine to Nitai Kabiyal's eyes, the goddess wearing a gold top became a flower of Kash, overshadowing everything, that ineffable question: Why is life so short?
The blue-throated bird spreads its wings, the thread of the akanda flies, the flower fair of Kash flowers flutters on the riverbank. Blue lotuses and the New Year's newspaper bathes in the distance.
The clouds move away, the distant mountains look even bluer. When the day gets a little longer, the fishermen return home. The boroli caught at night on lotus leaves softens a little in the sun. Thamma would fry the boroli in black cumin, chili paste and atap rice paste. With a little bit of biliti and chopped coriander leaves, I would eat it like nectar on boiled lentil stalks. Then there was salt in coconut garlands, raw coconut shell, milk made from coconut milk and a kitchen filled with oven smoke. My mother was sitting on the porch and cooking in one mind.
Again, in the evening, after returning from school, I would wash my hands and feet and see the kitchen being cleaned. Outside, there was a dim light. Rice was cooked in a dish covered with a basket on the shelf, a little dal was arranged on the plate and on the side of the dish, curries, red dusty vegetables, olive oil, hanging on the branches, mixed with the rice. A unique aroma in the air. The sound of the harmonium drifted from the house next door. And I took a bite of the boroli jute bhaja that was being prepared with my eyes closed.
Nowadays, I spend these days hand in hand. I decorate the dish with my childhood. Like this boroli jute bhaja. Everything goes away, only memories remain.
Puṣpānna
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