Only the Cow Knew

by Shome Dasgupta

Wind blown erosion—at the intersection

of two dirt roads where bales of hay

once played with wrens and robins.

One street sign, nodding over

like my baro dadu at the kitchen table

when we ate maach and aloo bhaji, tired and quiet.

I was just a brat visiting family in Kolkata,

wanting to go back to Lafayette for driveway

basketball and cable TV—air conditioners and soft beds.

Heading down this crumpled road

to pick up crawfish and corn, I remember his thick

dark framed glasses and neatly parted hair—

thin and combed and shiny, wearing a v-neck white t-shirt

with a baggy dhoti—a silent gentleman with creased eyes.

He was in the Korean War, or maybe Vietnam—

these were stories I never heard. On that afternoon

in my mejo dadu’s flat, my great uncle said in a light

voice, “Oh right. I think so. Today might be my birthday—

I think I remember now.” I remember now.

He spoke to himself more than anyone else, in frail

Bangla—like he found a gem in his mind, once forgotten

for years—hidden in dirt. How on that afternoon—

as a cow’s bell rocked lazily from afar, its song

coming through the balcony rails—for the first time,

I realized my own selfish nature, embarrassed.

A hug was never enough, but there was laughter

—one I hadn’t heard before. Maybe, it was a good day.

Maybe, candles and cake weren’t needed—just a memory.

Six pounds of boiled crawfish and a few potatoes and corn

on the cobs for me and mom—driving back to the house,

I can’t help but to wonder, what image did he see

when he remembered that it was the day he was born.