I was the sea-driven one Who landing built a sun-temple Laughed at a cunt-king?s milk-teeth Went about my sunset marriage Casting my dead skyward Everyone tumbles through these pages: parent and prostitute, lover and charlatan, Jew and Turk, madman and saint, fornicator and abstainer, the geisha and the devdasi as well as the Mumbai starlet. Here?s God?s plenty. Devoured by a voracious appetite, spewed out as poems by a compulsive energy. This is modernism with its pants down, uncle Ezra lending arse at Wayside Inn, Kala Ghoda, Bombay; this is Bombay pretending to be Paris, paan-stained and all. This is convent English giving Mumbai Marathi a well-deserved kick in the pants; this is the Parsi Queen desperately mimicking Sultan Padamsee if not Jean Genet!