A Meal The River Remembers

ON POILA BAISHAKH, the stove stirs first.

Before the sun sifts light onto leaf and lintel,

And the year begins — not with words, but with scent.

Ma ties her sari in the quiet half-light,

Measuring mustard by muscle memory,

Salt by something older than speech —

A recipe remembered, not written.

Luchi rises, thin as breath held too long,

And breaks like a promise, crisp and hot.

Alur dom thickens, stubborn, red at the edges —

A curry that forgives but never forgets.

The hilsa comes last, as it always has.

Laid in shorshe sharp as truth,

A fish caught between rivers and rituals,

Its bones murmuring something close to fate.

Outside, new clothes rustle against old skin.

Children run like unrolled scrolls.

The transistor stutters out a half-sung song

And someone hums it wrong, on purpose.

Tok doi cools under a netted dome.

Jolpai pickles gleam like secrets.

Payesh waits with the hush of temple bells —

No one touches it till the poem is read.

In this house, even silence has flavour.

Even grief is plated, carefully sweetened.

The past sits beside us, chewing slowly.

We do not ask it to leave.

So take your place. Taste what remains.

In Bengal, the year doesn’t simply turn —

It is kneaded, fried, pickled, and served.

A meal the river remembers.