But it is poetry is the question that I have in my head now in my head. I saw this article in the Guardian covering the ascension of Daljit Nagra's poems to the Faber's publishing lists, and it made me search for the stuff Mr. Nagra says he performs in public with an Indian accent (since he himself admits that he lapses into minstrel-sy, I won't use that terminology) to applause. Here is an excerpt from "Singh Song", a poem in a language strongly reminiscent of the late 90s MTV India rapper Apache Indian:

"i run just one ov my daddy’s shops from 9 o’clock to 9 o’clock and he vunt me not to hav a break but ven nobody in, i do di lock —

cos up di stairs is my newly bride vee share in chapatti vee share in di chutney after vee hav made luv like vee rowing through Putney —"

So is this poetry?

In the days of my childhood when I was given to devouring "The Hindu" newspaper (I suppose to reduce the number of words in the English opus that I had never met before), one of the many strange things my unformed mind encountered in its Madras idli-sambar English pages was the syndicated column of Art Buchwald.

Even though I still have no clue what a humor column laced with American politics was doing in the pages of an Indian newspaper, his avuncular photo, and what I thought was an absurdly funny name hooked me in. I suspect my incomprehension of the American way of life* then meant that most of Buchwald's jokes went over my head. Still many years later, when I found myself in America, I always snapped up yellowing copies of Buchwald's books whenever I saw them at sales. And these books with their Buachwald-isms have enabled me to get a quick education on the back history of contemporary American politics. I for one will miss this kind of education and hectoring.

R.I.P Art.

* All I knew in my gut was that America was where Mickey Mouse lived, and from where desperately sought merchandise such as throwaway Bic pens came in the cargoes of rarely seen, and hence very, very important relatives.