In everything, a bitter thought. So, in an English cargo-ship Taking French guns and mortar shells To Indo-China, scrubbed the decks, And learned to laugh again at home.
How to feel it home, was the point. Some reading had been done, but what Had I observed, except my own Exasperation? All Hindus are Like that, my father used to say,
When someone talked too loudly, or Knocked at the door like the Devil. They hawked and spat. They sprawled around. I prepared for the worst» Married, Changed jobs, and saw myself a foolc
The song of my experience sung, I knew that all was yet to sing. My ancestors, among the castes, Were aliens crushing seed for bread (The hooded bullock made his rounds),
One among them fought and taught, A Major bearing British arms. He told my father sad stories Of the Boer Ware I dreamed that Fierce men had bound my feet and hands.
The later dreams were all of words. I did not know that words betray But let the poems come, and lost That grip on things the worldly prizec I would not suffer that againo
I look about me now, and try To formulate a plainer view;
The wise survive and serve -- to play
The fool, to cash in on
The inner and the outer storms.
The Indian landscape sears my eyes-I have become a part of it To be observed by foreigners. They say that I am singular, Their letters overstate the case.
I have made my commitments now. This is one: to stay where I am, As others choose to give themselves In some remote and backward placeo My backward place is where I am,