The Tweeting Haijin

And so they came to my door. They didn't have to sneak up on me, they knew I had nowhere to escape. The engine rumbled arrogantly; quiet, well-repaired engines are for the powerless. And then it stopped, merging into the night's silence, as easily as it had shattered it. I could then hear them, the sweaty, nervous militia men cocking their rifles. I parted the curtain, and there they were, barrels aimed at my windows. Fully surrounded, as only the might of state can ensure. No escape then, no terms of surrender. I could go out in the blaze of guns the bastards wanted, for their glory, their honour, their shiny medals. Or I could choose a few more days of breathing. Panting more likely; I have asthma and they know it. A kangaroo court, a monkey trial. Blasphemy, treason, undermining the revolution, poisoning the peasants. The impassioned defence, the booing rabble, the shooting squad. It was so tempting then to consider cyanide. And yet no, perhaps the fascination of the imm

போகி நாளில் பழைய சட்டையில் அரை எழுதியக் கவிதைகளைக் கண்டுப்பிடித்தேன் on Bhogi day while rummaging through an old shirt I discover half-written poems (Published in Ardea  Issue 4)

I jingled them in my hand. I had no fresh notes to crinkle. No soiled ones either. They were all that was - four nickel coins. I looked up at the counter, at my palm, at the counter again. It lay there upon the counter, encased in thin plastic. It too, was all there was. The choice was clear - either the acid in my stomach digested it, or the acid digested me. The coins now jingled behind the counter. The plastic crinkled in my hand. I threw it away, and fingered the bun. Hard, stale crust, thankfully not mouldy yet. Cold, oil-oozing patty. Tomato slices, slightly rancid, their sourness accented by fermentation. Limp onion slices that failed to sting. The onions failed to sting. My desperation did. half-eaten sun; the street urchin sifts garbage Published in Cattails

Déjà vu m'arrive tant de fois, mais pas dans le sens psychological. La semaine dernière, nous sommes entrés dans Suzette, un nouveau restaurante breton dans Mumbai, offrant une gamme des crêpes. J'étais excité parce que je n'ai jamais vu une crêpe avant. J'ai demandé une "crêpe aux épinards, feta, basilic frais et tomates fraîches", en essayant mon français livresque au cours. Que j'ai reçu était une choc électrique. J'ai vu des crêpes avant—elles sont appelées les "dosas" dans ma langue. Les bretons les préparent de sarrasin, nous Tamouls de lentilles. Je viens de payer 20 fois plus pour quelque chose que je mange chez moi trois fois par semaine! J'admets qu'ils n'ont pas du fromage feta et des épinards, mais je peux les mettre dans un dosa, n'est-ce pas? Les seuls choses français de cette affaire etaient les couteau-et-fourchette, le désespoir Houellebecqien, et peut-être le Chopin jouant en arrière. Et bien sûr —déjà vu.

a few poems in the saki's* diary when reading I remember my stories he always listened to chand ashaa'r-o-nazm saaki ke roznaame mein jo padhe maine mere daastaan yaad aaye jo woh sunte reh gaya Raamesh Gowri Raghavan India *The Saki in an Indian & Middle-Eastern bar or alehouse is a person who acts as bartender, waiter and more. Saki also refers to a personal servant employed by merchants and aristocrats to serve wine. The British short story writer Hector Hugh Munro used 'Saki' as his pen name. The saki is a recurrent theme in Urdu poetry, with many poems addressed to him. I have therefore left Saki untranslated, 'bartender' seemed odd. Published in Cattails