By Shaila Moulee

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As the evening lamp bathes the room in its familiar warmth, my gaze falls upon the empty chair beside me, Dada.

Sometimes I hold your jubba against my chest
And wrap its sleeves around my shoulders.
I breathe in the warm scent lingering on its collar,
Your scent –
Enveloping myself to relieve my heavy heart 
For I’ve forgotten what you looked like.

I often bury myself in the tea-stained letters
That I never had the courage to send you.
And I stare at the photographs of my youth, 
Only to regret not filling three more albums.

Perhaps then it would’ve been easier to memorize 
The lines that adorn the corners of your eyes 
And the way your nose slightly crinkles on late evenings 
Spent in the living room where grandma’s flower pots 
Rest atop the concrete floor

I still remember Dance Bangla Dance Junior playing on the television
Right after you came home from the clinic,
Having served all your patients with care and diligence. 
And once the opening jingle echoed through the narrow hallway,
Your youngest grandchildren would drop their handmade dolls
While the oldest ones shut their school books
Just to line up at the front gate where you stood 
Greeting us with chocolates in one hand and love in the other.

We used to sit around the wooden chair reserved just for you 
You clutched grandma’s favorite teacup
While we bickered over the last bits of chanachur muri 
Stuffed at the bottom of newspaper cones.
As we all collapsed in fits of laughter, 
Your wheezy chuckle resounded.
It was music. 

But the evenings of today feel so lonely, grandpa. 
Teacups piled up inside the kitchen cabinets,
Newspaper cones replaced with glass plates, 
And Dance Bangla Dance Junior is now off air.

If I had known that you’d depart from the world so soon, 
I would’ve tightened my grip on your jubba  
And buried my face further into your chest
As your love is far more comforting and precious 
Than an infinite number of chocolates on late evenings.

Process

Inspiration for “A Lingering Regret” struck amidst the comforting warmth of family and tea. As my siblings and parents exchanged childhood stories, a wave of nostalgia washed over us. Laughter mingled with a subtle longing for loved ones lost, particularly the irreplaceable presence of my late grandpa, who had woven a special kind of magic into our evenings. The collective sentiment stirred something deep within me, and with a heart brimming with both tenderness and longing, I began to write. The act of capturing these emotions became both a tribute to my grandpa and a way to preserve the bittersweet memories shared that day.