Scents Of Memories Poem by Sanjib Saha

Scents of memories


Our neighboring house belonged to Nazzu's family. Nazzu wasn't her real name; perhaps Nazrana or Narjana. I never pondered it. They spoke Urdu; we, Bengali. We were Hindus; they, Muslims.

During Muharram, after playing stick games, I'd return home, hungry. Father never scolded, yet I'd cautiously circle the house.

Our sprawling courtyard surrounded large rooms. The southern and western wings had adjacent verandas. Northern and eastern sides had four-roofed tin houses. Beside the veranda, a dalim tree stood. Peeking behind it, I'd spot Father.

Nazzu would open her window, revealing henna-painted hands and intricate designs. She'd usher me through the connecting door. A faint smile graced her lovely lips.

Our courtyards had distinct scents. We understood, even if others didn't. They'd play alone in our yard mornings; we'd play hide-and-seek in theirs afternoons. Nazzu baked bread, filling the air with mouthwatering aromas.

War arrived. Bombs rained from the sky. People fled. Nazzu's family didn't. As we escaped, I saw her tearful face. Someone pulled me into the crowd.

How many wars ravage the earth? Massacres occur. Iraq, Iran, Gaza, Ukraine, Israel - devastation reigns. Countless lives lost. Yet, Nazzu's bread-baking scent persists. The wind whispers memories.

Wars cease for a teenage girl's gaze.

----- Sanjib Saha