Last Boishakh, I made a wish to you—
A handful of silk bangles,
And a twelve-hand-length Tangail saree.
On a scorching Chaitra noon, you came home, sweaty and tired, and asked,
“What happened? Why didn’t you cook that sweet-and-sour Panch Mishali today?”
With a sulky face, I replied…
“I haven’t forgotten the Chaitra noon,
But my wishes seem to have faded in your eyes.”
And look—on a brass plate,
I had set out your Chaitra feast!
Small bowls on that brass platter,
Each filled with delicate flavors—
Fish head with lentils, fried eggplant, sweet and sour chutney,
And a glorious spread of twelve kinds of mashed delights.
A cloud of emotion lingered on your face,
Like the sharp sting of dried red chili.
As usual, you said—
“This tastes just like Ma’s cooking,
Your Panch Mishali is top-notch.
You’ve truly earned your place in the kitchen!”
Then you said you had brought a grand gift for me—
One I hadn’t anticipated.
You said, “Here is your honorary reward,”
And I saw it with bright, curious eyes.
What was it?
A palm leaf fan in your hand.
I asked, “What’s this?”
You replied,
“In the scorching heat of this Boishakh,
If the electricity gets embarrassed and disappears,
I brought this for you—
If I can’t sleep at night,
You’ll fan me with this palm leaf fan,
With your gentle hands,
When I’m utterly exhausted from the unbearable heat.”
