Passepartout, happy she traded the dhow

Gibreel and all, for 40 000 rupees

Jigged and juggled down the streets

for cotton shirts and camphor boxes

singing in her head “It's you against the world baby,

you against the world” unconscious that she was observed

and re-observed.

She hoped for a Parsi festival like in the book

Adar roj nu Parab, “its you against the world, adar

roj nu Parab, baby, against the world baby and happy

birthday fire” – at that she shimmied

a man skidded off his bike, a thousand horns responded

she shimmied once more, pure spectacle

before she stopped aghast at thousands little elephants of colour

The craftsman all sinew, muscle, asbestos-coated hands

Stared, she corrected her funny English real slow –

– You? He rubbed his finger on his skin, too much black

You, he hesitated: no “yendu gundu”?

You…no Backward Tribe?

– Moi non, me no…backward tribe! me Senegal, me Wolof

– Wolof?

– Senegal, Didier Drogba, Youssou n’Dour, Sufi la-la-lah

– You Muslim? – No Christian…Me London, Chelsea Football Club?

– Muslim too much trouble, too much terrorist

Shiv Sainiks will make bigger trouble

Look, Parsi shops are closed

– Parsi festival?

– Parsis no festival, they make Zardosht at home

– No Indian dancing girls, rose-colour gold and beat the drum?

She came late – running, disheveled, blouse torn

We almost missed the train

– You got into a fight?

Took photographs of “Bhumiputra” chanting?

She was excited beyond belief

She had a little Ganesha figurine

She talked of millions of them with lights

Sinking into waters taking with them misfortunes away

And she shimmied to a song she learnt –

“Ganapathi Bappa Morya” – the man was magnifique

– Which man?

– L’artiste d’ Elephant!

And the Bhumiputra eat radioactive sand

From AOhm-made big Agni bombs!

They come in their thousands from the slum

And eat the radioactive sand!

– Huh?

– Pakistani bombs small, ah size of the penis

We were running, carting all our stuff

But Passepartout

was ranting – you are no Aryan born on ice

You have dinners in Lahneeland

Hindus are rising, no more sects

No more hug the tree and Buddha dancing

The new Bharata War will be pure spirit, pure Agni

She stopped – you are not listening!!

– OK you are in love with the Magnifique Artiste du Elephant!

– No, that's not the point!