It is very cold in New York now. Dense fog added with cold. Early in the morning, as we set out for work across the Queen's Bridge, the tall buildings of distant Manhattan seemed unfamiliar. The story of that fairy-tale fairy tale floats before the eyes when the cars on the road turn on their headlights.
I think I understand myself as one of the heroes of that fairy tale. But the memory of the winter and the fog that always floats in my mind, I can not find that winter even after a thousand attempts. I know that when I think of winter, some nostalgic memories start swaying in the souls of others like me. Ah! Winter is like a festive season. There is no end to how many memories of winter are involved in wearing colorful childhood clothes!
In our Bangladesh, winter comes in rural Bengal, quietly and very slowly. As winter approaches, blankets, kanthas and kanthas begin to enter our human courtyard from the holes of large boxes or cupboards in the house. Ah! What could be more comfortable in the world than sleeping on a blanket under a blanket on a winter night? I clearly remember that before winter came, my mother used to take measurements of our siblings and father's neck, arms and neck. When the scale was over, he would become a meditative weaver of knitting sweaters with wool yarn. In words, in words and deeds, in addition to all the activities of domestic life, his hands were always restless, his fingers became a symbol of agility. I could clearly see in a few days how much skill and art the sweaters or mufflers from my mother's gray wool thorns would come up on us with caress and love! How to forget this memory? Honestly, how beautiful and artistic is the winter in our country to knock on our door?
Another thing was that winter is a festival of eating cakes. Lately we have seen many shops with village Bengali cakes on the sidewalks of villages in different cities of Bangladesh. This is really hopeful news. However, we saw in our childhood that rice was sent separately from my grandmother's house to make cakes. My mother used to store that rice like a miser in the hope that she would feed us cake in winter. What kind of winter cake! In the villages of Bangladesh, the cake festival was in full swing. The name of the cake varies from region to region. What does the name do? The colors of the festival are the same everywhere! Pie was the best treat when guests came to the house. If you go to a house in winter and do not eat cake there, what happens! I still remember clearly, my mother used to wake up very early in the winter and make steamed cake. The mouth of a large silver-colored pot with a lid is covered with cloth. That tempting cake is being made in the heat of steam on that cloth. There was date molasses in the middle of the white round steamed cake. As soon as it was a hot cake, all of us would call. Then we all went to the festival of eating that tempting cake together.
Has anyone ever eaten date juice on a winter night? Remember that memory? Uncle Tunu had many date palms in our village house. During the day, juice would fall from the palm trees on the ground. We would then yawn at the sky and try to taste the juice. Sometimes a drop of juice would fall on the tip of the tongue, sometimes it would fall on the forehead by mistake. Ah! What a joy! Can it be expressed orally? But I remember one incident very well. Late night. Some very enthusiastic young men from the village were waiting for a special expedition behind our house. I was also in that team. Just remember. I was lying down pretending to sleep then. I took all the lights of the house to see. Then I took my head out from under the blanket, put on my mother's freshly woven sweater, and crawled out. I did not forget to take the torch light of Abba's five batteries. When I came out, I saw Tipu, Sarafat, Farooq, Kamal and a few others waiting for me. Then we all went to the bottom of the palm trees in our pond.
It was pitch dark. When you look at the palm trees in the fog on a winter's night, it looks like a ghostly monster. In the blink of an eye, Tipu, along with Sarafat, brought down the jugs of juice tied to a few trees one by one. Then began the extraction of honey from that pitcher. What a cold date juice! And what an impossible taste that juice was! How to forget?
Let's talk about winter fog this time. Early in the morning, the alleys of the familiar streets were covered with white fog. Even the closest acquaintance seemed so unfamiliar then! By listening to the voice, we could know the identity of the person. But it was most beautiful to see the fog on the river bank. In the distance, the hurricane lights of small fishing boats could be seen flickering. It was as if the color of that hurricane lamp mixed with the color of the fog to create a new color. That color then colored our souls too. With that was the light shout of the sailors. When the fog floated on the water of the river, it seemed as if an incorporeal spirit was floating on the water.
New York is also called winter. The whole city was submerged in a blanket of fog. But where? Can't find the scent of winter here like in Bangladesh? The fog left in Bangladesh is no longer seen. Where is the cold and enchanting fog of my soul? Does anyone know what?
