Cockroaches peering between the shattered plates scattered once they heard the slap of Shanta’s footsteps up the narrow halls. 5’4 in white socks and brown sandals, she commands the room, her yellow sari, a beacon in the darkening winter days. Mrs Tagore’s radio leaks through paper-thin walls.
Pagla hawar badol diney/ Pagol amar mon jegey othey
Out the **** elevator, she glides above dull linoleum floors to her two room cardboard box. Salina’s neon pink birthday banner hangs on, cobwebs burrowed between ‘A’ and ‘L’. She put the meager groceries away, and hung the bag out the window next to of her neighbor’s drying *******, cold air a mercy from the heat of the stove. Next door, the radio blares on.
Chena shonar kon bairey; Jekhaney poth nai nai re, Shekhaney okaroney jaai chhootey
Lamb’s breath sauteed with cumin, onions, garlic and green chillis from Aladdin’s Grocery on 14th and Jasper clings to her collar like an expensive perfume. The water hisses when it’s poured over, steam rising in protest. She traps under the lid, allowing a single stream to whistle her a lonely tune.
Ghorer mukhey, aar ki re? Kono din shey jabey phirey/ Jabey na jabey na, deyal joto shob gelo tootey.
Today is Salina’s birthday, her plastic table mat is still in its place on the three legged table propped against the living room wall. Shanta puts down a chipped white ceramic plate, cuts out a slice of angel birthday cake and lights a candle, a spell casting soft gold on the old crayon drawings on the plaster walls. She sits in a plastic chair and watches the door. The song reaches its crescendo.
Brishti nesha bhora shondha bela/Kon Boloraam-er ami chaela/ Amar shopno ghirey naachey maatal jutey, joto maatal jutey.
Each echo of stilettos makes Shanta hold her breath. Perhaps this year Salina will finally come back, perhaps this year the door will open and her daughter will smile, will hug her, will laugh as her mother cries. On the table, wilted jasmines, calling cards left unused, Salina’s poems cut from magazines, the word collage blurring together. “My mother's hands/calloused/call me/ bruised mango/this is love”. Each ticking of the clock another blow, another **** collecting on the plate.
Ja na chaayibar tai aaj chaayi go, Ja na paayibar tai kotha pai go? Pabo na pabo no
Mrs. Tagore’s song ends. The candle wax melts on the cake, the cake is thrown away, the room grows dark. Shanta collapses next to the stove. She undoes her yellow sari, loosens her blouse. When she strokes herself, when she comes, she bleeds, she is coming home.
