I awoke to the sound of pouring rain and thought: Ah! Life is stunning. Waking up early in the morning has been a tad more difficult than dropping into bed the night before like a spent force. I had completed sleeping and awakened from what’s known as an awesome night’s sleep.

It was another surprisingly cloudy Sunday morning once I began penning this memoir. In truth, in the lazy wet-cum-winter season of the 12 months, given that I had not anything unique to do except gaze at the glowing raindrops dropping pitter-patter on the parapet of the residence opposite ours, inside the lush, inexperienced suburban location of my Mashi’s antique ’70s house, so I stored writing. The blowing in of the north-easterly winds through the home windows of my bedroom changed even though seasonable; however, they have been generally expected to arrive best in the course of December and no longer anytime before. Mashi showed my thoughts and said: “kaal boisakhi brishtir jhor” (remarkable monsoon thundershowers of the June/July months). The sweet rajonigondha blooms, pink joba kusum, gondola, sayonara plant life, and the trenches of boughs and hedges had been all dripping moist within the early monsoon showers and commenced wafting faint smells of the vicinity.

I used to brush my deary pearls to ease off the glum morning illness! Besides, the act of brushing seemed to be a ceaseless obligation to be adhered to, whether one likes it or now not: a proposition I always undertook lazily. Thanks to my short-witted Mashi, she had kept a vast stick permanently to hand to give me a thorough beating with it if I ever faltered on the basic regularities!

Finding myself balancing a pot of Darjeeling tea in a single hand and the morning Telegraph in some other like a trapeze artist, I generally reclined in the massive diwan room: a ground room with three big home windows with a right away view of an old hyacinth-weighted down pond. (I confess: the suburbs, a few 20 kilometers outside of the metropolis, have interested me more than the actual metropolis lifestyles did, but it’s the most effective part of the purpose why I am interested in the suburban way of life, so the lot-vaunted stories of the pond and the surrounding bamboo groves there, in effect, have slowly crept into my collective recognition, completely so.) Somehow, the tea prepared by my providential Mashi has usually arrived warm and ten-ten ideal, and analyzing the newspaper in the vivid simplicity of the Sunday mornings er... Afternoons turned into heartwarmingly gratifying. The days spent well in express amusement. And therefore, I love Sundays.

I still thank my lucky stars that I began vacationing there during the Durga Pujas, probably in the autumn of 1990, and stumbled upon that piece of writing. For a few years, I saved it in my collection as a paper clipping, and I examined and re-examined the lyrical article, which I ultimately loved. Unfortunately, I don’t forget her calls anymore. Still, the truth is that it unfolded a whole new international of private discoveries that had to lead me to privately conduct ever on account of my first reading of that first-rate essay. I must thank her for writing that unforgettable piece, which lit a candle of eternal love in my heart.