The Loving Song of R.J. Tangaya

The Loving Song of R.J. Tangaya

The Loving Song of R.J. Tangaya

Let us be going then, me and Baljit,
When the evening is spreadeagling the sky
Like Mrs Gandhi etherized by Sikhs.
Let us be going through certain Chandigarh Streets,
The Rajneesh retreats
Of restless thighs in all-night ashrams,
And stripper coolies with saffron lingerie
Chanting in sawdust restaurants
With oyster shells, the smell of incense in hallways.

Aré do not be asking “What is it?”
Let us be avoiding Bombay shit.

In the room women coming and going
Talking of Swami Satya Govind.

There will be time, there will be time
To time the ball like Sunil Gavaskar;
There will be time to murder a lascar;
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop pakoras on your plate.

HURRY UP SAHIB IT’S TIME
To finish the samosas and start the curry.

HURRY UP SAHIB IT’S TIME
Got to marry a woman with a fat dowry.

Do I dare pluck a pimple from my chin?
They will be saying, “How he looks like Clive James
With his hair growing thin!”

Do I dare
Disturb the universe
By serving Les Murray tandoori chicken?

There is so much to do and so little timing;
I feel my headpiece is stuffed with rhyming.

So how should I presume
To measure my life with chopsticks
(Don’t eat at Wong’s, he’s a buffoon
Who’ll ladle your plate with MSG)
When customers fix me in formulated praise:
They say, “We came here to dine a year ago;
Nothing’s changed, our rectum’s ablaze,
We are neither living nor dead.”
Tell me, how I should presume to change?

I grow old . . . I grow old
But at least I’ve my loincloth on.

I have heard the key in the door turn once
And have cried, “Thieves! Murderers! Sodomites!”
“May you experience queer visitations,
May the p__s of a thousand marauding camels
Spoil your mother’s sleep!” Unreal city this.
The police not doing anything, the mayor not doing anything:
I wish I was in Madras
With my old friend Baljit.

“That is not it at all.
That is not what I meant at all.”
You can’t do this to me, I am pukkah Australian citizen.
I am watching footy, I am having beer gut,
I am calling sheilas sheilas, and I am hollowing my mind.
Mite, you can’t repatriate me, I am pukkah Aussie.

And tough teating to you too!

“A cold coming I had of it.
Just the worst time of the year
To be sailing on an Egyptian freighter:
The waves steep and the weather sharp,
And the lifeboat was full of water.
It was the very deadening of winter.”
“They are lying, yaar Baljit, I wasn’t expelled.
I am Tangaya, coming from the dead,
Coming to tell you all, I shall be telling all.
But first lend me two rupees
To buy a packet of Pall Mall.”