Jamai Shashti

My husband is sad today. And I realise yet again how the departure of my own beloved parents has left a hole in his world, that will remain an open wound forever. Today is the day celebrated every year when his relationship with them did not involve me.

Today is Jamai Shashti, the Bengali celebration of the Jamai, or the son-in-law. An antiquated ritualistic marking on the calendar when fish prices soar to their highest. When elderly Bengali couples spend wild sums to feed their jamai, who aging himself, incongruously becomes the deity worshipped for the day.

As a family, we mocked this ritual! My father and I were both averse to anything that did not make sense to us and tended to shred it with scorn and pragmatism. Ma would join in nervously, in this collective derision, but also make a quiet point about wanting to celebrate her own jamai, who was more of a kindred spirit to her than her own children were. And in the same quiet way, she always had her own way.

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Childhood

Those smells which hang in the air,
A little whiff and it takes you there.
Feels nice.

When fevers were frightened away
By dad’s hankies drenched in Old Spice
And watered ice.

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That twelve-year-old I knew

She jogs beside me, this child so sweet,
I knew her well, a long time ago.
We look ahead most of the time,
But share little smiles as we go.
Does she like me at all, I wonder now?
Her approval really matters.
Does she think I’ve done all right?
I wish she’d stop and chatter.

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Peer Pressure – The Nonnet

Peer Pressure

You were born beautiful, I hold you tighter,
Through those thick glasses, eyes shine brighter.
Through those stainless-steel train-track braces,
your self-conscious smile lifts me lighter.
Through your undyed hair, grace,
unpierced innocent face,
untattooed skin,
you are my
fighter!

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The Beginning of the End

The Beginning of the End

They read together silently, side by side.
His armchair, threadbare. Hers, newer, firmer.
Ignoring the cacophony of chaos in the air,
few words were spoken, much more to share.

Sometimes, in the middle of a line,
he would rest a gentle hand on hers.
She felt his skin, translucent, paper thin,
but said nothing, smiled and read instead.

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