Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized on a table;
And there, you, Mr. Eliot, my companion,
On these grey half-deserted Indian streets,
Searching for that overwhelming question, Should I ask now?
Well, the streets go on unending,
Arguments in closed bedrooms
That go on and on,
Never resolving in the humidity and heat
Of coastal Mumbai;
I find that we still talk of you,
In elite drawing-rooms and stuffy academe,
Mr. Eliot, the prim and proper gentleman,
And a classicist surveying inner/outer
Despite a post-colonial experience
Of more than 66 years!
Is it not very strange?
Redefining current selves / ourselves through your