So you remember Superman, 
not Shaktimaan, veal not enthu 
cutlets in Ramarajan pants 
turning up half hour early 
to help the host host his party?

So you’ve scarfed cheesy gorditas 
at Taco Bell, but no greasy 
papads at a roadside dhaaba? 
Never watched Barrister Vinod 
or serials on Doordarshan?

So you’ve never used IST, 
or Indian Stretchable Time, 
as genuinely plausible 
excuse for your perpetual 
lateness or said za as a kid—

three one za three, three two za six—
to help in practicing learning 
your multiplication tables. 
Don’t fret. Been wrung dry by tightwads? 
Then you know well kanjus, possessed

with fear of losing a rupee 
to such crazy degree they’d suck 
ghee from a just alighted flea. 
And if your mobile lost charge,
you’d burn for an STD booth.

Remember the Vedas are Late 
Bronze Age scriptures ancient enough 
to turn gayatrification 
into slang verb for embellish, 
Mahabharat, euphemism

for an epic confrontation 
with a sad power pakora 
bladu bore of a co-worker 
wagging her thumb shame shame puppy 
shame over a missing cool drink,

like Thums Up, Limca or Mango 
Maaza, from the call center fridge. 
A tale to mockingly relate 
to your chaddi buddies, your boys 
from childhood. Your bros. Your bum chums.

Or say the alphabet with me. 
Say A-B-C-D-E-F-G- 
H-I-J, for American 
Born Confused Desi Escaped From 
Gujarat Hiding In Jersey.

You don’t have to be Indian 
to be Indian, just possess 
a sense of Hindu rate of growth: 
the economy clamoring 
along at 3.5%

while the population splutters 
at nearly 25% 
during much of the latter half 
of the 20th century. 
Forget the Raj. The crisps-loving

Brits. The tish-pash startlets 
from Tollywood or Indiepop. 
The sofa sadhu sipping chai, 
toking bhang smoke from a chillum 
still trills jana gana mana.