I think a lot more than i write lately, i am in this sense of lapse where i cannot speak about the things i wish to speak of.

I still don't know how i have dealt with loss so far in my life.
All i can remember through distant, distant memory is of the early winter evening when on the steps of the Ganga, i lit a candle beside the plate with all that my dead grandmother loved in food, turned around and left.
"It's our custom and once you light the candle you must leave, do not turn back" heard in the voice of the erudite thakurmoshai

And I remember the beautiful Tagore song that my brother played on the back drop in his phone,the sunken faces of my father and my brothers as much as i remember the smell of the soft cotton from my grand mother's saarees.