I Am Not An Original Thinker-but I

I Grew Up, As Many Indians Do, In An Archipelago Of Tongues. My Maternal Grandfather, Who Was A Surgeon In The City Of Madras, Was Fluent In At Least Four Languages And Used Each Of Them Daily.

A Rich Man's Body Is Like A Premium Cotton Pillow, White And Soft And Blank. ''ours'' Is Different. My Father's Spine Was A Knotted Rope, The Kind That Women Use In Villages To Pull Water From Wells; The Clavicle Curved Around His Neck In High Relief, Like A Dog's Collar; Cuts And Nicks And Scars, Like Little Whip Marks In His Flesh, Ran Down His Chest And Waist, Reaching Down Below His Hip Bones Into His Buttocks. The Story Of A Poor Man's Life Is Written On His Body, In A Sharp Pen.

Mangalore, The Coastal Indian Town Where I Lived Until I Was Almost 16, Is Now A Booming City Of Malls And Call-centres. But, In The 1980s, It Was A Provincial Town In A Socialist Country.

Go To Old Delhi,and Look At The Way They Keep Chickens There In The Market. Hundred Of Pale Hens And Brightly Colored Roosters, Stuffed Tightly Into Wire-mesh Cages. They See The Organs Of Their Brothers Lying Around Them.they Know They Are Next, Yet They Cannot Rebel. They Do Not Try To Get Out Of The Coop. The Very Same Thing Is Done With Humans In This Country.

With Their Tinted Windows Up, The Cars Of The Rich Go Like Dark Eggs Down The Roads Of Delhi. Every Now And Then An Egg Will Crack Open A Woman's Hand, Dazzling With Gold Bangles, Stretches Out An Open Window, Flings An Empty Mineral Water Bottle Onto The Road And Then The Window Goes Up, And The Egg Is Resealed.