Autophony

The snails dehydrate, stew in their upturned shells to be crushed by passers-by. The man-high grass has turned yellow and then brown. The cows and goats are back to eating plastic bags. The frogs, crickets, mosquitoes are heard no longer; the rainclouds have gone away. The time to die has come.

Here is a transcreation based on Faiz A Faiz's revolutionary Urdu nazm 'Hum dekhenge', and written to the metre of another revolutionary song, the Marseillaise. "Destiny" Fear no more my fellow countrymen The day we dreamed of has now come! Oh! See the vile ziggurats crumble Reduced to ignominous dust! Reduced to ignominous dust! Can you hear the revolution Rumble in the angry streets It thunders fire and lightning To strike the oppressors' nemesis! Our destiny is come The day given to us Arise! Arise! For the cast-iron pledge Must now be redeemed! Fear no more my fellow countrymen The day we dreamed of has now come! Look! From the temple of our faith The evil is now exorcised! The evil is now exorcised! The good are now restored to their High exaltations again! See the generals' stars stripped away And their thrones, their baubles destroyed! Our destiny is come The day given to us Arise! Arise! For the cast-iron pledge Must now be redeemed! Fear no more m...

If I were to give something to you, What would you like to have? Shall I give you gold? You can make – bangles, rings, anklets. You may then win over your beloved And make her yours. You shall enjoy bliss, perhaps. But gold is robbed. Shall I give you iron? You can forge – hammers, axes, chains. You may then resist the conquistadores And interrupt their designs. You shall be free, perhaps. But iron rusts. Shall I give you stones? You can build – temples, forts, palaces. You may fear not rain or summer heat. And be secure in their shelter. You shall have peace, perhaps. But edifices ruin. Shall I give you friends? We can form – alliances, parties, relations. We shall have wine and dance and songs And be mirthful. You shall have joy, perhaps. But friends die. I shall not give you any of these. I shall give you the one gift I have. I shall give you words. You can tell - stories, poems, truths. You can tell me what you think About love and peace and freedom and joy. Your songs will be sung...

I "Darling" , said my truest love, "Tell me that you love me." So I told my truest love That she was loved by me. "Don't give me words, you cheeky man, You're good at them I say. Show by action how you can Your love for me display." "I knew it coming, dearest dear, So do not twist to rhyme. Tell me what you want to hear. What do you want this time?" "I don't want any diamonds. No, I already have many. Nor to any foreign country go; You haven't that much money." "I'll take you once to Pretoria , To China and The Rhine And at the Waldorf-Astoria In splendour we shall dine." "You can take me to Washington All in the course of time. But lets get to the Sheraton And have French food and wine." "I love you dear, I really do. I swear it love of mine! But one month's pay, and next month's too For fancy cheese and wine!" "I knew you'd say this all this while; My wishes you never...

Amidst the jungle’s myriad cries Beyond the brightness of the skies, Marked with bones and drying gore And a fearful dreadful roar I am the mighty tiger’s den! Now when men have come to stay And sow and reap and cry and play, The roars still echo in the night And the weak avoid my sight: I am the awful tiger’s den! Now the flowers and thorns are gone There stand fields of golden corn In a wood that yet exists The old wild way still persists I am the dying tiger’s den! The drummers beat, the torches flare, The hunters close in on the lair “See the stripes – yellow and black” The sahib’s rifle sounds its crack I am the silent tiger’s den! Now stands a suburb – homely, tame All that’s left is just the name And Buses, cars and lorries hoot Lush turf replaced by smog and soot I am the ghostly tiger’s den! (I live in Thane in an area called Waghbil - which in Marathi means tiger's den. There is nothing tigrine or even sylvan about the place.)

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair! I am not Oz, that kingdom fair, That wizard's land, That's terra australis. I am not Ozzy, the Osbourne man with family on TV nor a Stryne mayte. I am not Ozman, Agnes, pentecostal The Chinese-speaker, Nor a Turkish dynast. I am not Sir Oz, nor any knight I bear no armour-suit Nor am blest by Queens. My name is Ozymandias, writer of things: Please read my works, make me not despair!

O well! O well! Why you are not having water? I am failed in exam. I want to suiciding. Why you to be cleaned now? O rope! O rope! Why you are so weak? She is not loving me. I am having depression. Why you are breaking now? O poison! O poison! Why you are not working? My crops are not growing. I am want to die. But adulteration in everything. O gun! O gun! Why you are rusting? Police are chasing behind me. I not wanting caught alive. Why I bought Chinese goods? O ink! O ink! You are running full. You are saving me. I am drowning in you. What a relief!

I want to say sorry to you. I could say in lots of lovely flower-bedecked words. That is my one gift from God. But will it unspeak, undo the words I said? Ugly, unthinking words - the abuse of my sacred gift? What will the sorry do? It may hide, It will not heal. The scar will not go away. I can say stupid things in defence. I can say I bear things said to me with a grin and not resent. So should you. Foolish things to say. I can say silly things that make me pretend that I have escaped from the web of guilt that I have spun for myself. Only to say something more imbecile and fall into my own trap. Even these words will only weave that web even more. I can give you some more fancy words that mean nothing. Just lots and lots of words. One more poem, a little balm to pretend all is well. But they are all I have. But I cannot let go of you. That I will never do.

I think I am a Nazi. I killed a hundred flies today. I froze them on ice, lined them up one by one, and beheaded them; with a new, half-divided blade. I needed those heads: to isolate protein to do an experiment. The Endlösung to publish a paper. And that would bring me - fame, glory, eternity. I say that it is only my duty for the advancement of science. The Schutz-Stafel guard also said that at the doors of Mengele's laboratories. I think I am a Nazi. I kill because I do not like. mosquitoes, cockroaches, ants. Disgusting vermin I call them like the Aryan called the Semite. I swat them, crush them under my foot until blood, limbs, heads, hearts are all indistinguishable organum. I spray them with pyrethrin with glee, maybe even aplomb just like a Sturmbannführer putting down the Warsaw uprising. They come into my house, (built upon theirs). why should I tolerate that? I think we are all Nazis. The wise ones say that an area the size of Belgium is chainsawed every day in the Ama...

Today is Monday: Temple going day. Queue is long with hundreds of folks waiting to see God and praying: to escape from sins, for getting easy money, resolve doubts or feel strong. Priest is doing rituals, chanting fierce mantras in dense Sanskrit, adorning idol with flowers and sandal-paste, and burning powerful incense. Devotees are awed 'Siva Siva' they are chanting. Outside one shop is there selling things for God: Flowers and coconut to bribe the God inside the temple. It is asking one rupee for keeping chappals safe for pilgrims. Prasadam also it is selling. It is also selling tacky little idols of brass or copper, little brocade dresses for the goddess lined with jari and little steel cradles for baby God to sleep in. There are cushions for the cold metal idols to rest when tired, pretty little crowns and lots of other things. All for pious believers to dress up their Gods as if they are dolls. Is God like a doll, to be adored and played with and not awed or worshipped? O...

Those pearly whites that you brush in the sink as you sing our favourite songs; In that cracked yet enchanting voice rich in memories of every argument we've ever had; Those glasses on your shapely nose thickened over years though it is time for a higher number; The sun glinting off the strands of coconut-oiled smooth hairs: white, grey and black; And that perpetually swelling medicine box shared between us from which I swallow what I see first... You asked for it, didn't you what I liked in you And I had to be honest about it? Of course you have silky black hair, and dazzling eyes, bewitching smile, sweet voice et cetera. Not that I don't like you this way, Of course I do. But when it comes to that... Glad you get the point! Published in Writing Love an Anthology of Indian - English Poetry , ed. Ashmi Ahluwalia; Rupa Publications 2010. ISBN 978-81-29116-66-6.

eternal embrace forgotten a myriad years in earthly shelter (based on http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/6338751.stm and composed in MSExcel. Do diphthongs constitute one or two syllables?)

Reading instructions: Please dry your sense of humour before proceeding. Description: short, fair and ugly. defunct left eye, compensated by proud Dravidian moustache. (Kollywood directors' catch) I'm told girls didn't care for looks. So why am I still single? Profession: science student; Two papers in statistics. Ph.D. from reputed institution. (World-changing patents pending) I'm told girls like accomplishments. So why am I still single? Hobby: Writing and poetry. Some stuff published. People rave and rant about it. (May get a Nobel.) I'm told girls are suckers for poetry. So why am I still single? Not so hidden talent: languages. Can be comfortable with your Swahili-speaking brother-in-law (Or Greek or Persian for the matter) . I'm told girls like social skills. So why am I still single? I'm not rich. Well, not yet, but have the arrogance, and poise, cheek and sauciness to get there. (My first royalty cheque's in the mail) I'm told girls care fo...

My name is Raamesh Gowri Raghavan. I am 26 years old. I live in Patanjali hostel, TIFR, Colaba. I have a house in Thane. My father and mother and sister live there. My father is a trader. He retired from the army. My mother is a housewife. My sister is a psychologist. Our dog's name is Puppysingh. He is a very smart retriever. I taught him many tricks. I am doing my PhD in TIFR. I was a JRF in Pune earlier. I did my MSc in Biology. I did my BSc in Microbiology. I want to become a scientist and a writer. My hobbies are reading and cycling. I like collecting stamps and coins. I like little fruitflies. And snakes and spiders and ants. I like writing poetry. I like writing short stories. I make up original plots. I like to write in my own style. I write about many things. I do not write about Malgudi. I AM NOT R. K. NARAYAN.

"Remember Sundaram Mama’s Standing joke? “I retired from Godrej and Boyce. But wife didn’t retire from Godrej and Girls!” He told it everytime. Forty year’s service without a blot, Daughter married off to America groom. Or Venkatesan Mama in 25B? Left early and returned late To avoid the rush hour crowd. No children, and no regrets. Or Jayaram Mama? The one who secretly returned potatoes, Purloined by his wife. And Sita Mami? The one who would turn up After the poojai ended And take a whole flaskful of payasam? And Pankajam Mami? Sitting under the barren mango tree To extract gossip from passers by. I don’t blame you for not remembering. I had to make up their names To write this poem, for; I have forgotten the original ones. They were meant to be forgotten."

Dewdrops exist but for a moment and die with the morning Sun." The pearls of her laughter Those giggles, those blushes: Pangs of a first, intense love. Dewdrops. "The ant waits upon them for the water of life; Would not the heart?

This night I shall dream of you and potatos and rafflesia. This night as all nights, I long to kiss your tin-plated lips. In my dreams we fly on the dodo of love, skimming vast continents of postage-stamps and nostrils. The seas shall never separate our gins. Its waters wave like small bearded angels greeting us from afar. We shall feast on chocolate-coated bandana and tend to an exodus of love. Adorned in white silk, crown'd in cabbage mounted on an alligator, thou art my queen.