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This
post’s late because all day yesterday
I travelled between my homeland and home -
curried
cubed fish and three small golap
jaam
were
served for lunch in a neat airline tray;
though
deboned fish isn’t the Bengali way
it
was still festive, throwback to the drums
still
being played at the marquees. I heard them
at
30,000 ft somewhere near Bombay.
All
day yesterday I travelled between
being
a mother and a daughter, a parent
to
parents and child. On my in-flight screen
old Hindi films spooled out dramatic events,
a
three-hour ten-minute stopover meant
thinking
what 'mother' has now come to mean.
