(Translated from the Marathi by Mustansir Dalvi)
I reach into the innards
of a Pentium 4 processor, and log on,
chat with a friend
beyond the seven seas.
He knows what came before me,
of the riots in Malegaon,
of the Shiv Sena’s Dashera rally,
of all the prizes Asha Bhosale has won, and so on.
I know how his wife was hurt yesterday –
his son ran his tricycle
over the little toe of her left leg;
how his yellow shirt
got burnt while ironing it;
how his son misses my own,
whom he met just last month.
I informed him
that I did nothing special this Dashera,
that my blood pressure is OK, and so on.
Last night, a lot of loud noises
were heard from our neighbour D’souza’s flat.
This morning, his front door opened
with a bang
but being civil and all, I did not know
just how to ask D’souza what happened.
I had not run into him for several days now
and I don’t even know his e-mail ID.
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