236
PARTISAN REVIEW
ers, oh gobble-down gutter-rag dead-dog-eating sewer mother , kindly
accept this crumb from the American pie-. " Looking bored , the cow
sat down between us , all hush and pallor , so grounded, so serenely,
solemnly complete, it put us back into motion , and motion revived our
appetites . "Food! My God! "
Kansas City steaks flash in the mind, golden landscapes of fried
chicken , lamb chops and rice piled as high as temples- we talk
nothing but food on our way up the sifting slopes ; we howl
"Fooo-ood!" in broken, sobbing mimicry of the beggars' lugubrious
"Baksheesh"
as we squeeze through a mousehole into the first dim
coil of streets echoing drums , horns and chanting voices overhead and
underfoot from gratings like speakers broadcasting the soundtracks of
a dozen different movies through the backsides of a dozen theaters
with hidden entrances , alleys hooking in at every rum , sending us back
on ourselves, up and down spattered corridors of Hindu imagery ,
elephant gods , monkey gods , rat gods , every niche a shrine, every post
the cock ofShiva , but no food for us , not even the smell of it until we're
finall y funneled into that open central drain with its churning traffic of
bicycles, rickshaws and horse-carts .
We eat in a second-floor Muslim greasy spoon overlooking the
junkman 's vaudeville of the square , our steaming meat curry served on
a dried-blood-wooden table made from the
remai~s
of an old Indian
Railways carriage , Ganges curry that scourges the tongue , hot flashes
raking the palate, mouth teeming with fire , sweet , stinging delicious
pain that excites all the juices , tears gushing, sweat dripping fast , the
burn of the spice like white light in the brain , bringing tones and
textures into fierce clarity as we sop and slop and sigh , eyes closed for
the hottest , grittiest bites , grinning and weeping at the Mad Hatter's
feast, frantic elbows duelling over the crowds of downtown Benares .
After each bite we pour holy water on the flames , fanning our mouths ,
blinking , whistling, Ray, red-faced , laughing at the grey flakes raining
from my beard ; but we both have them in our hair , grey bits , ashes
from the fires . We sprinkle them in the palms of our hands and rub
them to dust between our fingers , savoring the clean disintegration of
ash as our dinners burn inside us, nothing wasted , everything digested ,
the ashes dissolving in the whirlpool-eyes of my fingertips .
