When seasons change and the scorching heat of Summer gives way to the clear light of Fall, when the loud random noises of unwatched television shows and afternoon sundry leaf-blowing give way to the quietness of bed, when the painful numbness of the hopelessness of everyday life gives way to a purpose or at least a pattern, when the large pet dogs on their leashes forced to walk at their owners’ will pant on the pavements with their tongues hanging out but no longer seem to mind the heat so much you realize that seasons can change.
I got out of my apartment building yesterday and there they were. A bunch of dried, white grass flowers framed by concrete next to a stern sign that read : “Private. Do not trespass.”
Kashful. Or its distant cousin has bloomed in Jersey City. Fall has touched even the concrete.
Kashphool? Or Kashful? How do you approximate from Bengali? Wikipedia tells me it’s called Kans grass in English, a grass native to South Asia. (“Kans grass”! Sounds strange. Not much better than Saccharum spontaneum, apparently its scientific name.)