From The Quill of Suranya

 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