I loved the melody my mom hummed when she worked
The clamour of the utensils.....
The whistle of the pressure cooker eating away
Her half broken voice.....
Yet the humming ... broken.... faded words from a Rabindrasangeet

There’s a bitter sweetness about missing out on something
I realised this when I came away thus far
The nude beaches hardly delivered the sex appeal
That the fragmented vision of a sari-clad waistline did...
Especially so, if the sari could be red!
I have a similar feeling when I hear glass bangles jingling
I would know not the hand.... I wouldn’t remember the complexion
But the rhythm would linger in my mind....
Chhun......a long pause....chhun-chhun-chhun
It would seem like a much known stroke....
I love to imagine the bangles would be yellow,
And the eyes of the wearer would curl up and close
When she would find me admiring her quietly outside her kitchen window
The sense of stealing her attention without revealing my purpose
The feeling of letting a woman know how much you admire her
Without the use of words
And read her reply in her smile..... :)