By Mohana Bhattacharjee
The diffused reflection of a sunny morning slowly fades away.
A long, loose trail follows the shadow of solitude.
I suddenly find a whole alley of survival,
where your memories play out in a jumbled mind.
I wanted to see the horizon of blue-sky dreams
in the initials of your surname, Dida.
I wanted a touch of the deep love
hidden within the fur of your hand-knitted woolen sweaters.
Learning the first tone of a lullaby,
the smell of old chalk still lingers in that broken slate.
You used to keep my childhood pictures
safe in your wooden cupboard.
I still remember —
how you would make me sleep every night
singing my favorite Rabindra Sangeet,
how every Saturday we would visit Sambhu Pagla
along those broken roads.
I remember.
I remember every finer detail of those memories,
which still binds me more to you, Dida.
The nobility of the spine speaks of separation sometimes —
reciting poems together in Rabindra Mancha,
listening to R.D. Burman’s songs on the radio,
dressed up as Bharat Mata in every go-as-you-like competition,
the taste of Sunday’s special mutton curry prepared by you.
You taught me to love nature.
You taught me to be a good soul.
You never extinguished the fire burning in my heart.
You know, Dida —
even today, in the dark,
when I see the streetlight,
I dream of tying my hands with your saree.
Your face floats in the autumn sky.
It is customary to stay.
You are alive in my moods and emotions.
In the shadow of time,
thoughts become dim —
a boundless mind makes the melody of being more enthusiastic.
It memorizes the rhymes of survival even after dying.
It’s October, Dida.
Do you hear the voice of arrival?
Stay forever —
in the hint of a dream,
in the presence of love.
You stay.
You stay with me.
Until
memories fall apart.