Freshly peeled potatoes
Dipped in water in a discarded steel bowl
Smell of new pastel colours on paper
Petrichor of Kalbaisakhi
Shiuli, Bel, Jui of seasons
First aroma of Ilish Khichuri
That one plastic lay with dust
Perched in a corner, nobody dares to open
God knows what lies inside.
Sound of the whirling fan
Smell of old books and dust
Alpona and Dhunuchi of Pujo
Saree from your mother.
Morning conch shell Summer Kulfiwalas
That creaking door you dare not close
All that feels like home.
Sometimes missed or frowned at
But never left behind
In the lanes of nostalgia
Every time you travel back
Through stories of childhood.
© Suranya
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