I meet my grandfather at the butcher’s, and he
Flashes me his diseased-dishevelled penis:
Paternal, and still young, he explains me how he
Wanted to defeat despair every morning
In that cold winter of 2001 New Delhi when he
Had been itching to stroke against the thighs of his
Nurse dressing him daily but couldn’t. The tumour kept metastasising
Throughout his groin, the crotch, his sack of balls
And scrotum. All he could do was just lie down
Simply etherised watching the nurse washing his
Skin pretending he really felt something.
All his desire reduced to an abscess of pus.
The layers around the cancerous mass so gooey, like
Pork fat when I will have rendered it down with
Onions and turmeric along with the whole spice-mix
Of an authentic vindaloo; the added pungency of
Black mustard and tamarind concentrate. Curry leaves
Spluttering never telling us if it is the oil that burns or water.
Oddly enough, my grandfather is now sitting all too comfortably
On the butcher’s chair reading a Kannada newspaper. How?
Grief succeeding language with no enhancement whatsoever.
A solitary fly buzzing around the store, slant, like truth
Hovering over the cleanest chunk of pork ribs
I’ve ever witnessed someone slaughter. Standing up,
He smiles wryly questioning my meat of choice
As the butcher moves on from the animal’s shoulder to its belly.
Nodding like an antique bobblehead, when he leaves, I remember
You. Twenty-four, sequestered and withdrawn,
How in one of the bedrooms of my parents’ house in Orissa,
You wouldn’t even take off my shirt—run your olive finger
Across my chest atop the fabric.
We never thought shame would be our thing.
Your right-hand heavy as a scalpel—
My left nipple, taut as a dream I always forget. Years later,
Our mouths somewhere there, together, your fingers running, running
Then surrendering to nothing.
Recipient of the Deepankar Khiwani Memorial Poetry Prize 2022 and Longlisted for the TOTO Funds the Arts Award for Poetry 2024, Tuhin Bhowal’s poems and translations appear or are forthcoming in Redivider, Bad Lilies, Poetry at Sangam, and elsewhere. Tuhin lives alone in Bangalore and tweets @tuhintranslates.
