Bacteriophage

I

 

Pitch black, fluorescent light, flying

 

critters surrounding it, night-spawn,

 

bivouac 'round the synthetic

 

  

 

glow satirizing the sun. My

 

mother and I sit in the tar,

 

sweating for the lack of wind and

 

  

 

I look at the light until the

 

critters and the black spots in my

 

eyes syncretise. We walk inside

 

  

 

to sleep and then they are all gone,

 

without so much as a goodbye.

 

I do not think I dreamt that night.

 

  

 

II

 

There are things like the arthropod

 

ephemera, illusory

 

in the land of the living when

 

  

 

bathed with sunlight and other

 

things which do not exist like how

 

once I stole a piece of mango

 

  

 

to eat — while it was still sweet and

 

cold — and watched the blood of it spill

 

from my teeth, staining my whites and

 

  

 

my blacks and grays and every last

 

colour that it ever touched, with

 

no bleach to absolve me of it.

 

  

 

Forgive me, I think I had dreamt.

 

  

 

III

 

It starts like this: my mother and

 

I in the blonde, alphonso and

 

yellow light of the kitchen and

 

  

 

I ask her, "What is a moth?" My

 

mother tells me, of मौत; speaks

 

of death and grief in the midst of

 

  

 

pots and pans and cookers and these

 

mangoes waiting to be blended

 

with the milk and the sweet, sitting

 

  

 

upon the granite— Or rather

 

what I meant was: marble. And I

 

sit and listen and then tell her

 

  

 

when she exhausts all her breath, "That's

 

not quite what I had meant to ask.

 

What is a m-o-t-h, moth?"

 

  

 

IV

 

There are some questions better left

 

unasked. I sit, again rubbing

 

my finger against the nail

 

  

 

sticking out of my desk — a deep,

 

wooden thing, my mother's gift, too

 

heavy to move, it sits in my

 

  

 

room and I, at it — even though

 

my elbow keeps getting caught on

 

the nail while working. I make

 

  

 

myself bleed as though the shisham

 

needs blood spilling down its front and

 

staining its browns to keep standing.

 

  

 

I stare into the flame, mango

 

yellow, a critter circling it

 

and I can barely tell the black

 

  

 

spots in my eyes from the moth. Brown,

 

circling alphonso flames. Mother,

 

mother! Look! In the dark of the

 

  

 

low lilt of the candlelight the

 

moth and I fly the same. Mother,

 

I want a mango.

 

  

 

V

 

It continues like this: the light

 

flicks back on. I scrape the wax and

 

what remains of the moth off my

 

  

 

table. Mother, I wonder if

 

we have a bigger candle. And

 

I say, "That is not what I meant

 

  

 

I am no poet, nor you any muse of mine.

 

Never mind the big candle;

 

a mango will suffice."

 

  

 

VI

 

It ends like this: my mother and

 

I in the kitchen with the moth-

 

No. forgive me. The alphonso

 

between us sliced, diced, cubed, butchered,

 

  

 

romeo-and-julietted.

 

My mother runs the knife through their

 

skins, and then into the flesh, slow

 

  

 

so that none of that mango-blood

 

drips, painting onto us torrid

 

tapestries. Mother, mother! Look!

 

  

 

In the low lilt of electric

 

light, on the marble counter,

 

the mango and I look the same.

 

  

 

VII

 

The sun flicks back on. Mother scrapes

 

what remains of the alphonso

 

and me off the kitchen marble.

 

  

 

Mother, did you wonder if

 

we had a bigger knife? Mother,

 

what draws the line between these knives

 

  

 

and daggers? Mother, was I sweet?

 

And then I sit and listen to

 

Mother, knower of all things big

 

  

 

and small in the world and then when

​

she exhausts all her lines, I say,

 

"That's not what I meant. What does मौ-त mean?"