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.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

The Y-Gene

Related Posts

Map

DANIEL CARDEN NEMO
If I see the ocean / I think that’s where / my soul should be, / otherwise the sheet of its marble / would make no waves. // There are of course other blank slates / on my body such as the thoughts / and events ahead. // Along with the senses, / the seven continents describe / two movements every day

A sculpture bunny leaning against a book

Three Poems by Mary Angelino

MARY ANGELINO
The woman comes back each week / to look at me, to look / at regret—that motor stuck in the living / room wall, ropes tied / to each object, spooling everything in. She / comes back to watch / what leaving does. Today, her portrait / splinters—last month, it was only / askew

Aleksandar Hemon and Stefan Bindley-Taylor's headshot

January Poetry Feature #2: Words and Music(ians)

STEFAN BINDLEY-TAYLOR
I am sure I will never get a name for the thing, the memory of which still sits at a peculiar tilt in my chest, in a way that feels different than when I think of my birthday, or my father coming home. It is the feeling that reminds you that there is unconditional love in the world, and it is all yours if you want.