Question

by nandini dhar
because my grandmother taught her to
my mother puts ilish - bones in everything she cooks—
dal, bottle - gourd, eggplant - onion curry, taro roots.
an ilish, after all, is a sister—
leaves her mark long after one ceases to meet every day.

with every push her ladle gives to these bones,
her village, of which she has no memory,
swells up in her korai.
an ilish, after all, is a jasmine crushed—
a fragrance on skin refuses to fade.

with every ilish - bone she scars her vegetables with,
her village, which was big enough to begin with,
gets bigger and bigger.
an ilish, after all, is a freedom - loving guerilla—
bones sharp as hairpins refusing to break.

because my grandfather taught her to,
my mother’s teeth snap every ilish - bone into two.
an ilish, after all, is history—
unalterable, but gossiped about every day.

when my mother chews the backbone of an ilish,
taking in every bit of that succulence,
she also chews her father’s voice chronicling
how when he and his brothers sat down to eat
in that big enough village, eight ilishes would jump
up on their plates. ready to be eaten.

with every movement of her mouth,
the voice grows bigger: teaching her the art of
using her tongue to undo an atlas redrawn.

Explanation:

The text is a poem, so the relevant subfield under Arts is Literature, as it deals with poetic writing and literary analysis.

Answer:

Literature