Nagamma ground spices
sitting on her haunches
next to a grinding stone
as big as an elephant’s foot.
Her mouth, blood-red from years of chewing pan,
made her look like she had eaten her way through a chili patch
or devoured a small animal.
My grandfather swore she stole from us
and my grandmother defended her
but not necessarily because she disagreed with him.
Nagamma and my grandmother fought about the price of milk,
about who left the gate unlocked,
about overcooking the rice,
about why there was less change than expected
when she came back from the market.
Behind her back, my grandmother would make a swigging gesture,
her thumb pointed toward her mouth.
My grandmother slept alone in the house after my grandfather died.
She would lie awake and listen for the sound
of Nagamma bumping into pots and pans
when she came home drunk in the middle of the night.
When Nagamma left the gas on by mistake
and neighbors suggested it was time to send her away
my grandmother insisted it was something that could have happened to anyone.
I saw Nagamma during her last years,
a bleeding, smiling Durga
my grandmother still making light of her drinking
until it got worse and Nagamma staggered home
stayed in her room behind the house for days and died.
But my grandmother reminded me
in her characteristically even pitch,
at least it was in a home and not a ditch.
