This pine log wasn’t here Last winter, when I came Here last, one Sunday afternoon, To alternatively harangue God (Whose existence I doubt) and to Lose the constant clamor inside By sinking into the musical Silence of this wooded hollow.

This I hear all around me again – The gurgle of water as it falls down A slope of boulders, the drill of A pileated woodpecker, the rumble Of a train rushing towards somewhere (Like a long exhalation of winter earth) On tracks that lie on ground above this one.

Here at peace, I alternatively write down A word or two or scan verse From the slender volume of Blake that I carry around constantly these days In my shirt pocket, as a talisman against These days of many year-ed silence as A gangly recruit might carry with him A packet of Lucky Strikes or a stack Of sepia photographs of a gawky girl Striking awkward poses, down below Into the trenches filled with mustard gas.

What else shall I write about? The log shivers as I shimmy up Along it to the tumble of mossy Rocks and place my hand under The falling water. Lord! It is cold. Cold which passes right down To my toe-bones. Such is also The awareness of dreams where I encounter a younger myself After a season of rains, running A piece of magnet, which came from A busted stereo speaker, through The runoff sand and silt, trolling For black glinting iron filings, stray Nails, bolts, and pieces of broken cans.

How was I to know that Many years hence, this is What I would have to do Again and again after nights Of inconsolable grief - pass My tongue through a language That is at once foreign and My own?

I must also confess that often I am my own friendly confessor Holding a switch of thorns in One hand and the cross of time In the other. And blood that Spurts across the face of a sky, Devoid of both innocence and guilt, Is my will, is my testament.

And to this hollow of beached Tree bones, I will have to return Often to listen to this commandment Written by water on stone, on wood:

“Let love, or some approximation of it, Groove your heart…”

I received those wonderful books you had sent to me via Amazon yesterday, and have begun reading them both right away - both are very fascinating as they deal with the subject that I have been agonizing over - India - starting from the time I picked up that dangerous book (Suketu Mehta's 'Maximum City'), and my relationship to it and vice versa.

Also Salman Rushdie's words from one of his lectures here were echoing in my head. 'Hercalitus' I think was the title of this lecture - where he began with this quote 'A man's character is his destiny', and then went on trace the genesis of his novel 'Midnight Children' to the realization that he was fundamentally Indian, and that is the most natural arena for his fictional constructions. So he began with the year of his birth, 1947.

This also meant that I was recently looking at a few subjects more closely to write about, at some point of time soon, tied up with India - the first one, and older, being the historical novel that seeks to explore cross currents and cross fertilizations between Persia and India, especially in the arts. Hindustani classical music was the entry point for this, but a few nights ago reading a couple of travelouges on Iran, I found the fascinating fact that the architect of Taj Mahal is claimed to be from Shiraz (also the grape from which that Australian wine we find in the grocery shelves comes from) in Iran. This has opened up fictional possibilites in my head and will now keep me up for a few years.

The second was triggered by a note posted by a friend on the subject of attending a Sting concert last week in Delhi, and the attendent speculations as to if this is a good thing. And at the same time I found in one of the Indian newspapers (which I don't closely follow anymore) about talks in Andhra Pradesh between the state goverment and P.W.G (Maoist naxalites). Also my paternal family had had a brush with one of these peasant movements in its begingings before disillusionment (I think) set in. So this gave me the idea for a novel set in the 80s, 90s and now, dealing with the intersection and collison of hi-tech city world with the Naxalite world outside. If I remember well R.E.C Warangal (the best engineering college in A.P.) was once where a crop of Naxalite leaders came from - folks in my childhood middle class mileu were scared of sending their kids to this R.E.C, lest they defect from the path of upward mobility and become 'revolutionaries'.

There is a novel here - only I have to find it. I also have to find an English translation of Mahasweta Devi's novel 'Hazaar Chaurasi Ki Maa' (Mother of 1084), as this seems to be the only novel dealing with this subject I know of, or was made aware of - do tell me if you know of any others.

1) Historical novel in the magical realistic vein – detailing the love affair of the architect of Taj (Ustad Ahmad Lahori/ Ustad Isa of Shiraz – I think however who this person is still in debate. See here for both some really wakco and sane theories/narratives: [A], [B], [C] ,[D], [E], [F], [G], [H], [I], [J] on this aspect of the building ) with a ‘native’ woman musician – mirroring the web of myths and tall tales surrounding the Taj.

2. A contemporary novel set in Hyderabad dealing with the intersection of the high technology world inside the city and Marxist ‘revolution’ in the countryside surrounding the city