I.

To finally find love I decided to summon my grandmother. She is the horizon and I am a rubber dinghy. We have only ever watched each other in traces left on the altar. She wears a gold thread sari, and her hair is threaded into a crown bun. She refuses to answer me. I revel in my bravado. I brought my 20th century grandmother to the club! She looks around. Dida, I beg, what is love? Her eyes are stamped behind her thick glasses. She hums, eating her song. She has not seen her daughter in decades. A million low-roofed, gold-caged clubs twist between us. Dida, I just want to be liked. She laughs, and the laughter shoots from the eye of the sun. We don’t know each other. I dog paddle in the waters while she pushes wave after wave. The sari lights under the disco ball. We are being danced on. মা, অপেক্ষা করো,* she says, and flushes away my drink. My hands cradle a cold glass. One olive. One white, white pick. All the other stools are shadowed. When she leaves, all that’s left is a neon ice cube shrinking.

II.

I don’t scroll lest my love thinks that I am distracted. I keep waiting and waiting. I contemplate downloading a dating app. My dinghy drifts and unbalances itself on someone’s car. The sun settles. The sea inhales. The club plays horrible techno music, and I hook myself onto some precarious beat. The club is empty now. Lights splash indecently, and a southerly wind closes the entrance. My phone buzzes and sinks into the room. I reach out but I cannot find my hands. The beat pelts from the speakers. It sinks deeper. Nobody shows up. They will stumble later. The clocks stop. I look at the world where my grandmother once existed and find nothing familiar. Not one hair strand. Not one touch. Not one famine begging for rice foam†. I book a cab and leave. The entire ride home is a legion of buildings ripping past.

---

* মা, অপেক্ষা করো – (translated) Mother, wait. In Bengali, girls are often called “mother” by their elders.
† Refers to the Bengal Famine of 1943.