By Rafi Uddin Maruf | Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Every passing moment, we rush through desert storms,
Sitting in scorched transport, gripping time by the throat.
Months roll by, years slip away—
Time races with the speed of a dying meteor.
Under a moonlit, star-studded sky,
The night passes with the roar of clouds in the heart's swing.
There is no celebration just because Spring has arrived,
Yet, the flowers of Spring still bloom in the mind!
The Bengali soul looks toward the New Year,
Seeking shade in some lush, blooming garden.
In the melodic waves of Chaitra’s departing song,
During the gentle hours of the southern breeze—
The face finds no cool relief here,
Cradled in the lap of this desert nature.
On nights when the drums beat for Boishakh’s arrival,
After the fierce havoc of the Kalboishakhi storm—
Here, the silence of the earth is never forgotten.
Still, the Bengali heart is filled with pure "Bengali-ness."
What if the Panta Ilish (soaked rice and Hilsa) isn't there?
What if there is no Mangal Shobhajatra (festive procession)?
In both chambers of the heart—the atrium and ventricle—
On the canvas of a traditional saree’s veil,
Boishakh arrives, bringing a message of joy to life.
In the tired layers of a face soaked in exile's sweat,
Boishakh means the melody of a lost song,
The painful title of an unfinished poem!
In a plastic lunch bag—
Broiler chicken curry with plain rice!
The constant calculation of Taka versus Riyal,
And the relentless demands of creditors back home
Keep spinning in the head like a whirlpool!
And so, asking person after person—
"What is the date of the Bengali month today?"
In the pages of an expatriate’s daily diary,
This is how every New Year’s night passes by.
