In the meat shop, people gathered
On the iron suspension, torsos hung by, obscuring the vision off the haggard old hyderabadis
Pale red flesh around the bones is the one I long for
Men watched, absorbed in the moment as the young man plucked testicles, one by one, off the hung impediments
Behind the platform strewn with dishes full of brain, guts, and flesh were teenage boys who busied themselves with tossing bones into a heap by the corner
with precision, with knit eye brows, laying the haunches before him, butcher sliced softly the slackened puff of a thigh
with the blade puckered in its teeth, a thawed leg bone's epithelial embracing tissue was dropped into my black bag
An experienced hand drew many hands of blade into the boneless collect, mincing it to my liking
The emptied sacks of pitted torsos, like the street lamps, flickered,
my mammallian mind lingered heavily on them
Outside, a harmless young boy waited patiently, swish -swish, he dragged his slippers on the tiled floor
His slender arms, he swung wildly, mimicking , an australian bowler, his favourite
Sunday was the mutton feast at home, and the neighbourhood mellodiously whistled their prestige pressure cookers
Whiff of onion spent on meat was unmistakable,
And the making of jowar roti began, like the marching soldiers, each home superimposed with others', a celebration of mutton, incomparably delicious mutton
the slender boned 6 year old who visited the meat shop with his dad 20 years ago (where he waited peerlessly on sunnny mornings), never out grew his obsession with mutton.
On the iron suspension, torsos hung by, obscuring the vision off the haggard old hyderabadis
Pale red flesh around the bones is the one I long for
Men watched, absorbed in the moment as the young man plucked testicles, one by one, off the hung impediments
Behind the platform strewn with dishes full of brain, guts, and flesh were teenage boys who busied themselves with tossing bones into a heap by the corner
with precision, with knit eye brows, laying the haunches before him, butcher sliced softly the slackened puff of a thigh
with the blade puckered in its teeth, a thawed leg bone's epithelial embracing tissue was dropped into my black bag
An experienced hand drew many hands of blade into the boneless collect, mincing it to my liking
The emptied sacks of pitted torsos, like the street lamps, flickered,
my mammallian mind lingered heavily on them
Outside, a harmless young boy waited patiently, swish -swish, he dragged his slippers on the tiled floor
His slender arms, he swung wildly, mimicking , an australian bowler, his favourite
Sunday was the mutton feast at home, and the neighbourhood mellodiously whistled their prestige pressure cookers
Whiff of onion spent on meat was unmistakable,
And the making of jowar roti began, like the marching soldiers, each home superimposed with others', a celebration of mutton, incomparably delicious mutton
the slender boned 6 year old who visited the meat shop with his dad 20 years ago (where he waited peerlessly on sunnny mornings), never out grew his obsession with mutton.
Comments