second year srija sengupta

It’s 1:03 AM, and there is ramen on the stove.

It boils away, wet and bubbly and vaguely violent in the way the foam climbs up the sides of the pot. I stir it, once, twice, and thrice again after the flavoring is poured into the pot. It stains the water butter-yellow, spreading like kiddish watercolor on soft paper.

An old radio show plays on my phone– the crackling and crooning and the ache of strings and harmoniums pull out old memories of young, wide eyes and singing in the kitchen, of incense and flowers, of conch shell sounds and the tinkling of prayer bells. It is the first day of Durga Puja, ten of the most important days in a Bengali’s year, and I am here, stirring noodles on a night so lonely that the dark presses in, held only barely at bay by memories of candlelight and soft chanting. And of course, the radio show.

Here is something you must know– the radio show is tradition. It is meant to be listened to at the moment of waking up on the first day, meant to seep into your morning-soft awareness like smoke, meant to lure you out of bed and into the kitchen where your mother stands stirring something sweet. It is meant to be heard with family that gently teases you for your late awakening, that hums along with the songs, that loves as lightly as the sunbeams that slip through the windows and lie curled on the table like content house-cats.

It is not meant to be packaged up in a link in a text your mother sent you hours earlier with a request to listen to it alone.

And yet, that is life. This year, I do not have what I usually do. The wet burn of the steam rising from the stove is but a pale imitation from the warmth of those past mornings, and cold of the linoleum only takes me further from soft chairs at breakfast tables. But there is still a sweetness in memory, and hope in the promise that I will have that again, maybe next year.

In the meantime, I’ll have noodles.

Ramen and Radio Shows