Cooking Fish

The scales stuck to my hands glistening
like silver coins, the fish naked
lay vulnerable on the grassy bank.

Feet pulled up my grandmother sat
on chair, rolling beads of prayer, soft flesh
of inner thigh quivered like scaleless fish.

She smeared the walls with camphor
to blot the smell of fish cooked in a mud pot
under the mango tree yards from the doorway

rubbed bright with vermilion – the red mother wore
on her forehead, red of chilli from Hyderabad
that she ground and stuffed in bloodless fish.

2 thoughts on “Cooking Fish

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