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Geographies of Mourning

Geographies of Mourning elora halim chowdhury Even now, nine months after khalamoni's* passing, I cannot believe it is true. I was alone in the apartment in New York. On the stovetop sat a pan of catfish cooked with onions and peas, daal, rice, and a pot of cabbage. A cucumber salad was cooling in the fridge. We would eat once Alok came home. I was catching a few laughs over Will & Grace when I was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone. Usually I would let the answering machine pick up, but assuming it was Alok, who had gone to the Columbia University Library to pick up some books for me, I reluctantly walked across the kitchen to the study to answer it. The caller ID box displayed my sister's phone number in San Diego. I answered expecting a routine weekend "catch up" session. The pitch and anxiety in my brother-in-law's voice signaled bad news. This was all too familiar. Seven years ago, I received news of my father's death in Bangladesh in much the same way. Then I was in Columbus, Ohio, one term short of completing my master of arts. Now in that long second as I http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies University of Nebraska Press

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Publisher
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2007 by Frontiers Editorial Collective. All rights reserved.
ISSN
1536-0334
Publisher site
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Abstract

elora halim chowdhury Even now, nine months after khalamoni's* passing, I cannot believe it is true. I was alone in the apartment in New York. On the stovetop sat a pan of catfish cooked with onions and peas, daal, rice, and a pot of cabbage. A cucumber salad was cooling in the fridge. We would eat once Alok came home. I was catching a few laughs over Will & Grace when I was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone. Usually I would let the answering machine pick up, but assuming it was Alok, who had gone to the Columbia University Library to pick up some books for me, I reluctantly walked across the kitchen to the study to answer it. The caller ID box displayed my sister's phone number in San Diego. I answered expecting a routine weekend "catch up" session. The pitch and anxiety in my brother-in-law's voice signaled bad news. This was all too familiar. Seven years ago, I received news of my father's death in Bangladesh in much the same way. Then I was in Columbus, Ohio, one term short of completing my master of arts. Now in that long second as I

Journal

Frontiers: A Journal of Women StudiesUniversity of Nebraska Press

Published: Nov 15, 2007

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