Mother, me and poila baishakh...

I had my poila baishakh the best
When mother mine had been dressed
In her red and white saree
And when she had
A copper bowl kind
To hold all spring flowers white
From our garden...
A paradise...

I had then always a new beginning...
New ways of interpreting
Life...
And mother mine
Requesting me
To accompany her to the nearby temple
At the riverside...

I usually cycled all the way
From our house
To the temple gate...
Her copper bowl of flowers
Hanging from the handlebar
Of my red racing bike...
Sometimes I would pedal a bit fast
And she would fall behind
And I would wait at a corner
Of street not to be seen by her...
For her beautiful call:
'Son...where are you?'
I would just pedal faster back
To her with a laugh...
Kidding with her...
And she would smile back too
And would politely ask me to
Be by her side...
For the rest of the journey
To the temple
By the riverside...
So white...

I usually complied to
Her polite
Snubs...
I still do that
When she visits me
In my dreams...
Snubbing me
She so politely...