The buried pumpkin

Mom went to Bangladesh, as an Indian, once a refugee.

With animated street view, she found the house,

and the stable garden with her stories.

Huge backyard where she’d play with her siblings, friends.

Divorced countries now. Separated, yet the same without ends.

She was welcomed by the relatively new inmates. Just like them.

At the end of the day well spent, what memento would you like

from your house? She pointed at a golden pumpkin lying on the ground.

She remembered her mother caressing her bruised knee

When she fell off from that banyan tree, standing there, still there

Unmistakably there

She carefully took the vegetable.

Her head moist, bent.

Times flashed, times changed.

She held the uprooted pumpkin in her arms.

Held it gently in her palms

Like a child, brought it home; to Kolkata, a sliced Bengal

In her words, as she’d recall.

We were thrilled to see the cute-looking guest from Bangladesh.

Ah! Today’s lunch! We thought.

But we didn’t say a word

When we saw her burying it in her favourite inseparable space,

She calls her kitchen garden.

My mom went to her hometown in Bangladesh, years after the partition and brought a pumpkin she couldn't eat. It was there with us for long until she buried it in the kitchen garden, from where grew many pumpkins, without inhibition.