The Y-Gene

By KIRITI SENGUPTA

My friends were aware of the wish I nurtured.
If I had a daughter,
I would name her Srividya!
I was not influenced by any actor.
Our prayer room hosted a dazzling
crystal Sri Yantra on the holy altar.

My wife’s desires were girly too.
She wished to drape her daughter
in frilly dresses.
She had plans to find her girl
a groom in clover, so my wife could
live comfortably! Prior to her labor,
my mother-in-law keenly observed
my wife’s navel, Come on, it’s a boy!
It was a boy, a cute little one
of two and a half kilos.

To take care of the borderline weight,
special supplements were arranged.
My wife looked bright in pride.
We worshiped the Narayana
right after the holy bath.
My son is at school.
It’s a co-education convent.
After school he tells his mother,
Girls sit on the left side.

Kiriti Sengupta is a poet, editor, translator, and publisher from Calcutta, India. He has been awarded the 2018 Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize for his contribution to literature. He has published ten books of poetry and prose and two books of translation, and co-edited five anthologies. Sengupta is the chief editor of Ethos Literary Journal. More at kiritisengupta.com.

[Purchase Issue 18 here.]

The Y-Gene

Related Posts

Black and white image of a bird with a long neck

Dispatch from Marutha Nilam

SAKTHI ARULANANDHAM
With the swiftness and dexterity / of a hawk that pounces upon a chicken / and takes it by force, / the bird craves / snapping up a vast terrain / with its powerful, sharp beak / and flying away with it. // When that turns out to be impossible, / in the heat of its great big sigh, / all the rivers dry up.

Tripas Book Cover

Excerpt from Tripas

BRANDON SOM
One grandmother with Vicks, one with Tiger Balm, rubbed / fires of camphor & mint, old poultices, / into my chest: their palms kneading & wet with salve, / its menthols, to strip the chaff & rattle in a night wheeze. Can you / hear their lullabies?

Blue cover of There is Still Singing in the Afterlife

Four Poems by JinJin Xu

JINJIN XU
my mother, my father. / Her skinny blue wrists, his ear caressing a cigarette. In the beginning, / it is already too late, but there is hunger & no time / to waste. All they need are six hands, three mouths, a clockwork / yearning for locks of their own, windows square & fresh.