Star Literature
POETRY

Maa

Was she born to be my mother? Who was she when she was twenty-three and young?
ILLUSTRATION: MAISHA SYEDA

People, places, things 
I do not know how I remember 
I remember summers by the smell of mangoes 
I remember springs by the smell of flowers 
I was born on the twenty-second day of Srabon 
The fourth month of the Bangla calendar 
I remember grief by the smell of rain. 
In the summertime, 
My mother cuts me a plate full of ripe mangoes 
She brings it to my room 
Hoping I would talk to her. 
My mother, a woman in her late fifties
Leans on my wooden doorframe 
As I stare into her ageing eyes. 
Her hair, whiter than the winter morning fog
Freckles scattered across her flushed cheeks
Like constellations in the Milky Way  
Her bone-weary gait, like a soldier awaiting to return home 
I wonder if she was always my mother 
Was she born to be my mother?
Who was she when she was twenty-three and young? 
Were her eyes always filled with worldly dilemmas and what to cook for dinner?
Has it ever sparkled like stars after a new moon? 
Did she ever cut herself a plate full of mangoes?
What were the things she worried about before she was my mother?
Did she find me in a dream? 
Begged God to send me her way?
I stare at my mother, a woman in her late fifties 
My mind starts to wonder yet again, 
Who am I? 
Who will I be at fifty-six? 
Was I born to be your daughter, mother? 
Will I always be your daughter, mother? 
People, places, things 
I do not know how I remember 
I remember my mother by her soft, and warm hands 
Her orna that smells like my entire life
And love, by a plate full of ripe mangoes. 

Jannatul Naeem Tasmiah is a student of English Literature at Jahangirnagar University.

Comments

করোনার সংক্রমণ

কোভিড পরীক্ষায় এখনো প্রস্তুত নয় সরকারি হাসপাতালগুলো

অনেক সরকারি হাসপাতাল দীর্ঘ সময় ধরে করোনা পরীক্ষা না করায় তাদের যন্ত্রপাতি পুনরায় ক্যালিব্রেশন করা জরুরি হয়ে পড়েছে।

৩২ মিনিট আগে