I heard the two magic words today. Wren. And Martin of course. I couldn’t catch the face that said it, but I have a good memory for voices, and it will not be long before I match it to the face. From which I will then proceed to pluck out the eyelashes one by one, and then make him eat it garnished over stale poha. This colonial hangover, the rules of which can be observed by both Mr. Wren and Mr. Martin only in the breach, needs to be given a decent bonfire, preferably with its supporters in it.

But though I peer at the conference-goers stuffing their faces with rice and gongura chutney, I am unable to make out the voice. But I reckon there are others who share my sentiments, so I can relax in peace that the assassination will happen soon.

in the closet
the violence triggered
by my violin

Raamesh Gowri Raghavan