Kali is my Grandmother — Poems by Sumedha Bhattacharyya

I carry the gentle touch of you as we walk the zebra crossing,
your sudden pangs of holding hands
on that narrow, crowded road—
a real place that feels unreal now.
Your careful choice of tomatoes,
an insistent urge to pick the right papaya,
and yet failing.

That day,
you chose me, nurtured me.
Today, you did not, and you left.

As heavy, salty tears pasture my skin,
I brush my teeth,
feel the hot shower against me,
craving a sense of holding on.
I discover my grandmother’s hand,
nurturing me with her caress,
her palms thumping
that chest,
singing a hum, a lullaby—

aye aye aye aye aye aye re,
amar shona, amar babu, amar shona re.

Her carefully curated,
nurtured, daal, bhaat, aloo bhaaja—
the ultimate comfort of her tired fingers
braiding my hair.
Her Kali-like eyes
piercing through that photograph—
black hair bun, spine facing the camera.
And in her silences now,
she knows this grief,

only to remind me to forgive—
that tomato,
that papaya,
that narrow road—
bringing me back to my crowded, naked self,
my own breathing body.

Bare-breasted,
spine straight,
head held high—
like Kali,
unabashed,
undisguised,
unapologetic.

My grandmother never told me about this—
this kitchen where she sang,
what she sang,
why she sang.
That day, when she did not feel it anymore,
that very day when she stopped.
Does this mean that she never voiced?
The absence of sound
is also a presence.
When a sound sounds, silence silences—
almost like finding stillness in movement.
What remains is one breathing body,
witnessing the song that got stuck
in the blue-walled kitchen,
the oily exhaust fan,
and everything in between.

The room, room, the room
Window, window, the window that makes
the sunlight falls in meshwork
knowing there is water
I can make it fall on my cheek
on my skin, the shoulder
knowing there is toothpaste waiting to be squeezed to touch the teeth
home is miserable, but still brushing brushing
knowing that you can lean
on people who hold you
my father's hand on my head
him to the living room and back to his bed
missing that call from my mother
and her irritability
returning the rage
knowing that I will have some time
to write
in that room
with three windows
remember my grandmother
her hurting in her words she wrote

knowing that someone else will witness you
someone else will hear you
listen to you
knowing I have my skin to see
knowing I have eyes to be seen
some ears to be listened
a nose to feel nostalgia
the smell of my mother's hand
my fathers wish
my friend’s disquiet
knowing that mundane is okay
knowing my body
is a home.

Grief is the dance of the river—
so blue,
so dark,
so cold.
But it still holds you,
like that boat in the vast expanse of the river.
Ekti ekaki nauka,
one lonely boat,
like a person—
so many stories being held.

Grief is like the boat,
trying to sail through that river.
Remember the time you dipped your hand in the water?
The cold and the warm rush—
that is grief.
Grief is that—
a rush that starts cold
but warms you when you let your hand graze through the river,
skin softly scratching the water,
water tenderly scratching the skin.
Grief is the emotion of two countries—
scratched,
filed,
felt.

Grief is the emotion of Bengal.
Grief is Podda Nodi,
the story of two countries—
ei desh,
oi desh,
e par Bangla, o par Bangla.
My grandmother crossing the river,
from that border to this border—
a border that is invisible.
The water—so blue,
so dark, so cold.
Like borders disappearing in water,
like her childhood.
A home lost is also grief.

Grief is in my body, gallivanting through my veins as I write.
Grief is in the split ends of my hair,
gently touching the pillow’s surface,
like my grandmother’s wise hands—
cupping,
cradling the back of my neck.
Grief is Jhinuk that stays un-milked
but lingers to remind me of all the memories—
of my mother’s tired fingers,
making that perfect triangle to nurture my lips,
my body.
As I carry this grief now,
I dance.