Sir Vidia in the goggles, the dark goggles,
The angry young man not,
But the angry old man,
Yea, the angry old man not,
But the mimic man mimicking
Taking the Indian writers under his stride
At Jaipur,
The Caribbean stalwart of literature
Of some Indian descent and connection,
Losing his temper
And regaining his quiet
After hearing the petty-petty things
Of Indian writers,
Letting not English culture to be multi-culti,
Colonizing and provincializing of it.
A colonialist, a writer of the Raj,
Deconstruct him not
As he will deconstruct you himself
Such is the power of his writing,
Of the angry young man,
The angry old man in the dark goggles,
Sir Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul,
You do not know
What he is,
Touch him not.
I salute you, salute you, sir
For your power to rebuff
Explaining erroneously.
O, you mimic man mimicking the authors,
With the French-cut beards
On the chin,
A knight under a hat,
Looking so smart and handsome,
Elegant and daring in his grip
But sometimes Nadira sitting next to him
Quelling his anger
By passing on a slip
To calm down.
But in your memoir, sire, see I
The picture of Patricia Ann Hale,
In the making of yours
See I her image,
How she sustained you,
Made you grow with
In time
And something missed you
While dispensing with
And her contribution,
You can never, never,
Vidia
And together with,
May I ask you,
Are the women for self-sacrifice? |
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