Baishakh is yet to show up,
But heralds its warmish hues.
Country roads, back streets, chourastas-
banyan tree’s braided prop roots- bask their longings
in tepid sunrays, and then pull out.
Bishnu Boiragi, the Mahajan,
Nirmalshyakra and the Mithaiwala don’t give up though!
Tinni of KaltaBajar doesn’t understand Bangla ponjika,
She only longs for nagordola, alta and reshmichuri.
Flames of the forests don’t bid adieu,
but are set free in the mellowing sunbeams.
See! This forlorn wait for an evening of cumulus clouds—
Such pining would cool watermelon’s beady bosom
in the shade of overarching clouds.
This vivacity of life in the weaver’s warp and in a drowsing Bishnu Boiragi’s dotrara..aaha..
mondira’s hum gets carried away by the Ishan cloud,
your arrival is such pressing!
O you coy mistress-playing a waiting game!
The Mithaiwala, in amriti’s two and a half coil,
harpoons the golden epic of summer.
The expectant Mahajan is meandering onto his red ledger …
O! Would that the Baishakh came right away!
Draping in a red-white garad sari in a rustic Bangali way
wouldn’t you come very soon, O blessed Baishakhi?
Tinni and you, in your resmichuri and alta’s patterns,
Keep jingling the tune of riverine basins of eternal Bangladesh.
Bipasha Haque is a diaspora writer with particular interest in life-the way it is. By profession Bipasha is a university teacher.