Letter From Boston
Rites of spring, love and marriage
On a weekend morning earlier this month, I was laboring hard to remove the snow piled a few inches high on my car when I received a text message on my cell phone, which chirped frantically from the innards of my heavy jacket. I reached instinctively for my phone with one hand while I kept lashing out at the snow sitting comfortably on my car with the other, and squinted to read the message which pronounced boldly, "Spring is here!" My first thought was, this must be a sales promotion from a marketing company trying to tempt me into buying a cruise ship ticket to the Caribbean or a prank from a neighbour watching me as I struggle with snow, a couple of feet of which were still sitting motionless on my driveway. I was thinking of sending an appropriately worded strong reply when I noticed that the SMS had originated from the 880 area code, i.e., from Bangladesh. As I went back to my task at hand, and tried to get over the feeling of helplessness as I imagined my friends and dear ones in Bangladesh enjoying the beautiful spring-like weather in Bangladesh, while I dealt with the below freezing temperatures, my mind wandered off like "a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills" (William Wordsworth, Daffodils) into the realm of spring and the anticipation of the inauguration of spring.
While spring is not officially here until 21 March, that did not stop me from hallucinating about spring --- the daffodils and tulips in my garden, the crisp mornings, the chatter of birds in my backyard, cardinals, chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, titmice, and mockingbirds, and the feeling of renewal that you observe in nature as we march from March to June when summer begins. In the US, Daylight Saving Time kicked in on March 10 and the extra hour at the end of the day meant more time to watch the sun go down, stay outside before dinner, and fewer excuses to avoid the gym or go out for a quick jog to chisel off the layers of fat that the long winter nights and rich food deposit on your body.
One can also feel that spring is around the corner from the chatter in the social media and emails from Bengalees in this area who herald the advent of spring with a flurry of activities and celebrations: weddings and anniversaries, poetry readings, Independence Day, Pahela Baishakh, Boishakhi Mela, Boston Marathon, and all the rest. The joyous colors of spring bring out the songs and energy that was dormant during the cooler winter months.
This year we kicked off our spring festivities with a splash. Our friend Sandipan got married on the 7th day of March in a very soulful and lustrous ceremony in the historic Museum of Industry and Innovation located in Waltham, on the outskirts of Boston. It was a rainy night, but the weather did not even slightly dampen Sandipan's spirits or the excitement that we all felt as we gathered first in the cavernous hall on the first floor decorated with various artifacts for the pre-nuptial mingling and later inside the first floor wedding room with its high ceilings and the artfully decorated rectangular stage. As soon as Tagore's "aji joto tara tobo akashey" came through on the booming music system, we turned our head and saw Sharmita, the bride, slowly walking down the aisle accompanied by her father, Ashish. After that, it seemed like every step of ceremony was very well planned and perfectly executed. As the bride and groom, at the command of the priest, dutifully carried out the traditional vows, the various rituals, walks "around the holy fire" ceremony (which reminded me of "Shat Pakey Badha"), the "seven steps" together, and the priest periodically threw spoonfuls of ghee on the holy flame, we all sat glued to our seats as if watching an artistic performance. After the two hour long ceremony ended, and the purohit pronounced Sandipan and Sharmita "man and wife", we all joined them in a dance to cheer them on as they undertake the journey of a lifetime.
As we were heading back after the wedding, I noticed that all the signs were good for a beautiful spring this year. I turned right where the love of my life was sitting next to me and smiling, and only God knows why. Then I heard the tune, or was it only in my mind, "Jodi tarey naee chini go aji."?
If I cannot recognise her, will then she do that
On this special day of Phalgun?
Will she give the flower, the colour of her own?
Will she knock at my heart to keep me awake?
The veil of new leaves may get a sudden swing
The hidden unuttered words may come out
On this special day of Phalgun?
I don't know, I don't know. (Translation from Tagore by Giridharan)
Dr. Abdullah Shibli lives and works in Boston.
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