“As the fiery afternoon says goodbye,
Her darling heart wastes a tiny bit of sigh.
No wonder the rotten cup of tea-
Gives a solemn conflicted plea…”
Pronoyee closes her diary,
The diary that is very close to her soul.
The diary— that utters the days spent in a tiny bowl.
The bowl held her granny’s payesh.
Such a divine delicacy, can resurrect any rotten flesh.
The payesh held the scent of Bangla.
Now the bowl is gone, so is the scent of Bangla.
Or, that’s what she thought, she thought her Bangla is lost.
But she forgot,
She forgot that it is she who is lost.
She is lost in translation.
The days smelled like pickled mangoes,
The nights smiled like blushing stars,
Pronoyee was just a little girl,
When the crimson sky of the village,
Waved her goodbye from afar.
She turned a teenager,
In a distant land,
Like the turbulence felt in a flight,
She trembled thinking of her plight.
Yet she fought back.
Fought back the agony she felt—
From leaving the Bangla she utterly loved.
Now she dances in a distant land, very far from her home.
She cries, laughs, and dreams.
For she knows, this transition indeed breaks her,
But she can gather pieces of herself.
And turn them into—
A fresh sky with white clouds of Autumn.
