The View From Chinchpokli

A fouled Sun rises from behind the textile mills As I crawl out of my nightmares and hobble To the sink. Then I luxuriate in the toilet While my unprivileged compatriots of Parel Road Cross Lane Defecate along the stone wall of Byculla Goods Depot. I shudder at the thought of going out of this lane Towards the main road. Hundreds of workers are already returning From the night-shift, crossing the railway lines. The bus stop is already crowded. I begin to read The morning's papers and cover my naked mind With global events. The ceiling fan whirs, but I sweat. I breathe in the sulphur dioxide emitted By the Bombay Gas Company, blended with specks of cotton And carbon particles discharged by the mills That clothe millions of loins. Then I shave and shower, Dismissing all untouchables from my mind, fearing More palpable pollution. On my way out I shall throw a used condom and a crumpled pack of cigarettes Into the garbage. And like a glorious Hindu hero, Reluctantly riding his chariot to the centre of the battlefield, I will take a cab to the Manhattan-like Unreality of Nariman Point. There I will shape India's destiny Using my immaculate gift. I will ride in a taxi. I will pass the Victoria Gardens Zoo without blinking. Byculla Bridge will give me the first line of a poem, And the Christians, Jews, and Muslims on my way Will inspire a brilliant critique of contemporary Indian culture. Of course, I will ignore The junk-shops, the tea-houses, the restaurants, the markets I zig-zag through. I shall smoothly go past The Institute of Art, Anjuman-e-Islam, The Times of India, The Bombay Municipal Corporation, and Victoria Terminus. If I glance at Flora Fountain or the Bombay High Court, It will be an absent-minded observation And if I seem to look at the University of Bombay's Clock-tower and buildings it will only be the sulking Stare of a dirty-minded alma mater-fucker at the old hag herself. But beyond all lies my daily sigh of relief Because the gross millions are temporarily out of sight. Some culture is possible in that half a square mile Where the wall of India cracks open and the sea is visible. At Chinchpokli, once I return in the evening, I plot seductions and rapes, plan masterpieces Of evasion. The loudspeakers blare at me. Bedbugs bite me. Cockroaches hover about my soul. Mice scurry around my metaphysics, mosquitoes sing among my lyrics Lizards crawl over my religion, spiders infest my politics. I itch. I become horny. I booze. I want to get smashed. And I do. It comes easy at Chinchpokli, Where, like a minor Hindu god, I am stoned By the misery of my worshippers and by my own Triumphant impotence. [Translated by Viju Chitre, from: As Is Where Is: Selected Poems ]