The smell of coconut oil
on the silvery strands of my dida’s hair, after
her timely bath, strictly
on schedule, like everything

in her North Kolkata home, wafted
far into the Himachal town where my family lived,
in the Horlicks glass jars, tightly sealed,
inside brown balls of grated coconut, fried
in dark molten jaggery, and sprinkled with
just enough camphor, to bring the fresh morning
of a durga puja all the way to me and my little sister.