Just got back from Ma and Baba's big anniversary bash. After they renewed their vows, Ma serenaded Baba with a song she'd sung to him during their honeymoon (a Bangla love song written by Rabindranath Tagore). At least, she tried to sing it. When she got choked up and couldn't finish, our guests (mostly senior citizens) joined in to help her get through it. Another tradition I'd forgotten — the Bangla art and soul of singing together.
The next night, I stayed up past midnight listening to Ma tell stories — nourishment for the continued writing of Asha Means Hope. My sister and I also feasted (gorged?) on her superb lamb curry after taking Baba to Starbucks for Father's Day. Now I'm back home. I'll be heading to Dorchester tomorrow to help kick off that branch of the Boston Public Library's Summer Reading Program. Should be fun, but after a weekend crammed with people, the introvert in me wants to linger on the Fire Escape a while. Be still, give thanks, and reflect ...
The next night, I stayed up past midnight listening to Ma tell stories — nourishment for the continued writing of Asha Means Hope. My sister and I also feasted (gorged?) on her superb lamb curry after taking Baba to Starbucks for Father's Day. Now I'm back home. I'll be heading to Dorchester tomorrow to help kick off that branch of the Boston Public Library's Summer Reading Program. Should be fun, but after a weekend crammed with people, the introvert in me wants to linger on the Fire Escape a while. Be still, give thanks, and reflect ...