You asked me a question or maybe you didn’t. It doesn’t matter because I have an answer either way. You have seen me in my white saree with red lace and heard my bangles collide harmoniously together alongside the movement of my hands. Twenty-four glass bangles on her right hand and twenty-three on the other. But you are not counting, are you? I bought them in pairs from the old lady who sits on the paved road I walk on every day in Dhaka. They are red, cheap, and fragile and yet they have been handled with great care. You don’t know why I am suddenly dressed in an alien attire and therefore I am answering question asked or left unanswered.
I miss my Baishakh celebration. Eighteen noboborrsho spent in Dhaka and suddenly the nineteenth lost its existence. Bengali culture is very rich which makes us very wealthy. But I guess you realize your wealth when you are living a life devoid of it. I never thought I would miss Baishakh so much until I did. I stood out in the crowd of America when I talked about it but I wanted to belong in the chaos of Robna botumol or go on hectic walks with the strange yet familiar crowds on the streets on Dhaka University. Everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be but I am not. Oh! You must be so bewildered with all the outlandish words I am writing. Let me explain. Baishakh or Noboborrsho is the Bengali New Year. Baishakh is the month in Bengali calendar and the month begins on the 14th of April. Many shopkeepers, and businesses opens new account book on that day. So, you see there are some parts of the world where the English New Year rule ceases to exist.
Now that you are hopefully acquainted with my celebration let us move on to the delicacies. There is no Bengali celebration without fish. I love the sound of the first sizzle of fish on the frying pan. The tantalizing essence of chili and cumin spreads my nostrils with delight. I ordinarily stand on the edge of the kitchen to grab the first fried piece and immediately regret as my tongue burns on the hot piece of fish. After a few bites the chili flakes instigates to burns through my lips and turns them ruby. As sweat drips through my forehead I smile at my fortune for my delights. It absolutely does not end there. I hope my descriptions are making you hungry. No celebration or tradition ends without sweets. My personal favorite is Mishti Doi (Sweet Curd). It is served on an earthen pot and kept right beside the rice, at least in my house. My family loves to take a spoonful of Basmati rice and a scoop of the Doi and then eat it to make it less sweet for the taste buds. You cannot any Bengali celebration without poetry. Let me share a poem with you but don’t worry, there is a translation as well. I wish I could somehow read it to you but for now translation will have to work. This poem is written by Rabindranath Tagore and translated by Fakrul Alam.
There it comes—Boisakh’s seasonal thundershower
Enveloping the evening sky!
What or who do you fear? Open all doors everywhere
Listen to the sky rumble intensely and its loud insistent call.
Respond to its overture with song-lyrics and melodies
Let whatever shakable shake; let anything transient go!
Let everything fragile shatter; let only the permanent stay!