Huge clouds brew in the interior.

A cauldron of currents with their intersecting vectors Stirs the beast out of its sleep – it has slept for years Now, and had spared me its clutch of claw and jaw, The rip of cloth, the howling at moon as it is poured, Molten silver, into the first quarter of summer sky.

Green beeches rustle with prophecies.

I approach myself, a stranger walking in from the rain, Wild eye fixed on some sign giving fire, spirit doctor With a leather pouch of bead, bone and hallucinogen, Pointing to a stair leading into the sky. Should I climb? Should I approach Xi, the navel, marked inside you?

Sargasso presses its bones to sea surf.

Light pours in from the windows. Green-eyed gimlet, How much of it do you decant? How much is hauled, And hoarded in your amber cellars of clavicle, jawbone, The upturned wrist? In my solitude, absent mindedly, I Open doors. I step into the sky. I become doomed Icarus.

Waxwings knock against your window screen.

What will suffice for a true-love knot? Even the rain? But he who has bought grief’s lottery, bought even the rain. ~ Agha Shahid Ali

Syllables lost. Countries crossed. A drought of no, no and not. My hands sift through the filigreed hours for your word knot.

Stillness and silence after the storm. On the curtains a draught Of shadows. Each breath a bucket seeking water from your ghat.

What was it that slipped so quickly through my fingers, I forgot. Was it time? Was it the heart, partitioned by a cast of fate’s lot?

Cancer dust. Shellfire. Minefield. Barbed wire. Hail of lead-shot. From my interior lands on fire arrive messages, in dash and dot.

I can’t read; blinded by morning’s mirrors that last night’s rain has wrought. Nor can I write, for your sun has eclipsed even my landscape of thought

You are invited to the gracious and well-appointed house of a lady whom you had met a few times previously. Your eyes begin to rove and take in the details spread out in the rooms; paintings, sketches, photographs on the walls; details of the furniture; dolls, sculptural pieces, pottery deployed on the side tables; coffee table books on art, gardening, cities. There is no thought or reflection on what this household at this place of earth means, and is connected to the larger world, at times of perceiving. Those thoughts would come later. For now you are just enjoying the air as you carry out the task of observing.

As you sit and interrogate the host on the significance of the various objects-de-art, talk somehow veers to the recent bombings in London, and the air is immediately strained by the weight of suffering as well as is colored with ashes of anger. The question comes up as to why young men who grew up in a 憀iberal?democracy would want to bomb the very place they grew up in, killing many others and themselves in the process.

Since you can抰 resist giving out your crude opinions, when it always is simply wiser to keep those pronouncements to yourself, and perhaps just say a silent prayer of peace such as that of St. Francis, you begin by saying how it might be that the unsolved racial issues within British society might have contributed to driven those young men to perverse and cruel religious ideologies.

You would have, at this point, added a thought or two on the utility, perhaps, in thinking of how such perversions could have come about, and even found so much appeal in a society, which makes large claims on the kind of life it potentially offers to its young people that they should have not, ideally, turned into killers. At this point another invitee, let抯 call him Mr. X, who also happens to be from the Indian subcontinent, interjects to state flatly that all of this had nothing much to do with race or social problems in the British society, and that all fault lies with the religion, i.e., Islam, and its adherents alone.

From his tone you can gather that he had very well made up his mind about this religion, and had, perhaps, even etched out his point vis-?vis Islam in mental stone, along the lines of Mien Kamf and Judaism. Again here it was simply wiser to be silent, because who knows, maybe his diagnosis is right, maybe he has given larger amount of critical thought that you have to these issues, maybe the fault lies in a religion and one sixth of the world population who profess to follow it, either because of the happenstance of birth or out of their own choosing?

Yet you have to speak, again without much opportunity to reflect, because intuitively you perceive, not only because of the friendships and acquaintances with people who are Muslims, but also personally, that living religions are never monolithic, and that faith within a community shows as much variation as there are variations and deviations of feeling, perception and wonder among human beings. And thus it is highly reductive to pin the cause of a serious problem to as big an organism as a whole religion.

However since elegance in debate or discussion is something you are yet to master, you fumble your way through your thickets of thoughts. You also point out to the history of race riots in Britain as your supporting claim. To refute this Mr. X, diabolically, brings up those other communities who perhaps were similarly discriminated against, such as Indians (by this I think he means those Indians who are Hindus like himself) and Chinese, who didn抰 take to bombing as way of readdress. (Here you hear echoes of railroad barons of late 19th century America, who used one immigrant group against others, for example Irish vs. Chinese to skirt problems of extremely dangerous working conditions ?workplace safety laws are of quite recent origin after men have become, perhaps, less disposable - and corresponding compensation) Hence the problem is not, as I have been too simplistically trying to claim, social conditions leading to radicalization of young men by perverse ideologies (which by the way was one of the main findings/conclusions of a report submitted by the British home minister to the British Parliament a few months before the bombings) but that of a religion.

While you are wondering if subtlety of thought is a vice and not a virtue as you feel it is, and try to gather your flustered breath, the discussion, which had caused the temperature of the room to rise by a few degrees, is broken off, and talk turns to other less contentious issues. However this would not be for long because talk somehow comes back to the problem of Islam as a fine dinner ends and dessert is served. But more of that should wait for a later missive.