The Railway tickets purchased.

Bombay Central

It all started here: between Marx and Shivaji

The eternal struggle of Railways, the Raj and

Rama

I breathe in and out, unfurling the smell

From Mumbai's local wit:

“Of diesel oil, hot steel, cool rails,

Light and shadow, human sweat,

Metallic distillations, dung, urine,

Newspaper ink, Parle's Gluco biscuits.”

Gieve Patel forgot: the jasmine of her hair

A “hearty dinner”, she commanded

She was a cousin of a nephew of a friend

Steamed fish swam in darkened broth –

It looked better yesterday at sea

And then

“Don't eat, don't that” Welcome to

the India of Prohibitions And

remonstrance

“You people come to only

Photograph the dancing monkey”

The restaurant was Super Modern Tucked by

a strange place, the Labour Camp As modern

as a flat TV:

Another hyperstar almost kissed on screen

The manager huffed and clicked: cricket and bat

“Don't talk to me about Culture –

Here we run on adrenaline and cash

Got cash? You don't have to speak the language”.

“Don't talk to me about poetry”

Oh, the India of Prohibitions!

But I have an invitation from Nissim Ezekiel!

“Don't talk to me about Nissim” –

Fingers through hair, wafts of jasmine

Sailing through the air

It says: “If you are coming again this side by chance,

Visit please my humble residence also.

I am living just on opposite house's backside.”

Uncontrolled laughter – you…quite the clown

“He's dead you know”, “I know”

“Are you a total teetotaller, completely total?” – she quipped

in mischief, to show she's in the know

Cold Kingfisher frothed in frosted glass

“Don't talk to me about politics”

Oh Lord, the code is wrong: talk to me, talk to me

– the subterranean text, oh India of the Permissions

hidden in “ya…nos”… “ya no if the editor didn't die

I would have killed him…Maratha basher and all”

“Don't talk to me about Philosophy, I am into Branding” “On the

forehead, the back, the butt?”

“Don't you get clever here…we kill foreigners you know –

Muslims, Pakis, Parsees and those peasants from Andhra and those

Delhi…don't you start me on the Biharis” Fingers through the hair, jasmine, jasmine, jasmine

Greased-cardamom in custard

Don't shoo the flies I have deserved them

Could beauty ever be so well designed to be obscene?