Street Dog Dreams: Lodhi Gardens, and: Uncle’s Army Years, Decade I (1981–1991)

Street Dog Dreams: Lodhi Gardens

all nightshe dreams of gold jewelryburying her aliveand fine fine silksthat smell so sharply of fearher teeth ache

then when the humans comeclattering their feetin the yellow squares of lighttheir breath heavy with desireand sweet smoke

she wants to tell themwho she wasbut the man whistles so loudlyshe forgets everythingand barks at the moon

Uncle’s Army Years, Decade I (1981–1991)

His patriotic origins are dubious:mother enlists him afterhe is kicked out of the housefor stealing a car; then she leaves for India.It is the second time he is abandoned—this time adopted by Uncle Sam.

Falling short of warrior,he is barely soldier. Boot camp brutalityreplaces the way she used to mixthe rice and ghee together, each three-fingeredswoop on his plate a calligraphy of love.Now, the scrape of forks against metal traysturns his stomach, the potato flakeslike cud in his mouth.

Authority, the drill sergeant says,is a kick between the ribs. So, his ribs come outlike creaky shutters, uneven floorboards.He begins to think of his body asa condemned house the army has occupied;wonders when the wrecking ball will arrive.

But it doesn’t take long to learn to shinehis boots, crease his sheets, andmarch in the absence of melody. After all this,every day he wakes up at 4:30to pull on a net cap and fry eggsin a kitchen full of peoplewho look surprisingly like him.

There is leave and he learns how to drink rum,pretends he is a sailor in someforeign port instead of just a dusty Texas bar,the sweat making his glasses slideinto bifocals. The cocktail waitress keeps askingif he speaks English but he tipsher just the same—another five, ten, fifteen and the nightdisintegrates. Next time, he wears his uniform,but it’s a different waitress.

The army takes his time,the length of his hair,his dignitybut they give him geography:Germany, Korea, the Philippines, North Carolina, Panama.It all looks the same, he thinks: same gray barrack,dingy kitchen, flapping stars&stripes.He never picks up any languagebut learns about lager, hostess bars, andthe Reach of Imperialism.

In Saudi Arabia, he finds himself amongIndian shopkeepers, relishes goat curry,and goes to see dubbed Hindi films,feeling a distant tug of pride in Amitabh Bachchan’sposture, Rekha’s round hips. Here, he is twicethe ex-patriot and suddenly the uniformstarts to feel ill-fitting. One day, someone barters hima wife and he comes to her with flowers,writes to mother for blessings but then leaves for Kuwait,her picture an accusation.

What he knows of war he tries to write to herfrom inside a crowded bunker, but the words come outwithout punctuation—as though the smart bombs,the night vision, have stolen his pauses, he writes to her, breathless,like there is a sanction on periodsin these desert dunes.When the sirens come uplike the wail of a child, he folds the lettercarefully before putting on the gas maskand rushing out into the exploding night.