My parents reminisced as we ate shrimp and rice with the fingers of our right hands, in proper Bengali fashion. Dad, one of eleven kids growing up in rural Bangladesh, remembered restless nights on dirt floors worrying about cobras slithering in through cracks and holes. Several families in the village had lost children to snake bites in the dark of the night. Mom, a talented Manipuri dancer and singer of Rabindra Sangeet told me about the plays and musicals my Didu used to organize for the entire neighborhood. Now that the first draft of Asha Means Hope is done (ALLELUIA), I listened eagerly, taking in details to add texture as I revise. I'm sure I had the only carry-on that was packed with freshly-made luchis and Ma's signature ground turkey, potato, and pea vindaloo, which she sent along for our dinner tonight. Too bad I can't bring it out on the Fire Escape for everybody to sample ...
(Please translate for other readers if you know these words; am grumpy after a red-eye, miss my parents, and lack energy to cross borders graciously this morning.)