MUSINGS

SHAHNAZ ISLAM

Jaggery Love

Ron da, you’ve never left my memory; you’ve been living there since those favourite days from my childhood memories—stolen, treasured, unsung, some rhymed like a beautiful song, and others garnished with untold love. Those countless days spent playing with you in the L-shaped village school field, under the old, hefty, brown banyan tree that proudly stood witnessing generations of youth and the stories of people, children, and itself. We swung from its branches all noon long. Some days, I quietly admired you from the other side of the pond. Even your giggles from afar were a melody to my ears.

Every morning, as the school bell rang, I waited eagerly to see your face before moving on to household chores. I remember how, on your way to school, you never failed to ring your cycle-bell and wave me a good day. You, in your oversized white shirt, one side always untucked, paired with your faded navy-blue pants, somehow managed to make each day feel complete. Meanwhile, I busied myself with chores—feeding the cows and hens, cleaning the hay hut, and then rushing to the kitchen to cook on the earthen stove.

I’d steam some tekeli pithas, stuffing them with shredded coconut and jaggery powder. I wrapped them in banana leaves and tied them with a thin red thread, infusing them with affection. Clad in my simple embroidered pink cotton frock, my bruised knees told stories of their own.

Every noon, I’d take the pithas for you and sit under the banyan tree, waiting. When the 2 p.m. bell rang, all the boys would rush out of the broken, unrepaired school gate. My eyes searched for you among the crowd, like a flickering lamp finding its flame. And then I’d see you, waving goodbye to your friends before heading toward the banyan tree. You devoured the pithas and excitedly chanted stories of your day at school. I listened patiently, measuring in my heart the depth of affection I carried for you. With a feeble smile, I would ask, “What are you going to teach me today?”

Every afternoon, after school, you taught me sums, multiplication, English alphabets, and Robert Frost’s poems. Like an obedient student, I noted everything in my tiny red notebook and sketched to-do lists on my slate.

Years passed, and you left our village to pursue further studies and sculpt your future. My future, however, remained woven with thoughts of you. My world revolved around your laugh, anger, smell, and the poems I silently wrote for you. Everything I can read and write today is because of you—you taught me.

I penned down these words once:

“You have grown into a handsome man. Do you miss our village? Do you miss me? Do you miss fishing? Do you remember the pond, where we fished every Saturday morning and swam all day? The pithas still long for a savoury noon, weeping in the cold whenever the school bell strikes at 2 p.m. How can I forget you? In this lifetime, it’s impossible. My proses and poems chant only about you, and my pen’s blue ink bleeds my love for you like rain in the meadows. Far away from home, do you feel closer to the Assamese in you? I miss you, Ron. Bohut morom tumarloi…”

These unsent letters now lie, piled beneath the drawer, gathering dust.

(The writer is an Advocate from Gauhati High Court. Email: shahnazislam1320@gmail.com)