by Reetika Vazirani

    Mussoorie， Uttar Pradesh， India， l947

    When I am nine， the British quit

    India.  Headmaster says， "The Great

    Mutiny started it."  We repeat，

    The Great Mutiny of 1857

    in our booming voices.  Even

    Akbar was Great， even Catherine，

    Great！  We titter over History.  His back

    turns： we see his pink spotty neck.

    Sorry， the British leaving？ we beg.

    "This is hardly a joke or a quiz ——

    sit up and stay alert，" he spits.

    "It is about the trains and ships

    you love and city names.  As for me，

    I'm old， I'll end in a library，

    I began in trade."  But you must stay，

    we tell him.  He lived here as we have lived

    but longer.  He says he was alive

    in Calcutta in 1890.  He didn't have

    a rich father.  A third son， he came with

    the Tea Company：  we saw a statement

    in his office. The company built

    the railroads to take the tea "home

    to England" so that Darjeeling and Assam

    could be sipped by everyone， us and them.

    They sold our southern neighbor Ceylon，

    silk， pepper， diamonds， cotton.

    We make a trade of course.  In England

    there is only wool and salt and

    snobs and foggy weather， Shakespeare.