I met Salman Rushdie, after the Queen knighted her South Asian subject,
met him while selling books at Harold Washington Library Center, here
entering Chicago, a long-term bookseller, at least, that was the plan.
The librarian called him, "Sir Salman," instead of "Sir Ahmed," affect...
Salman sat in a room signing hundreds of books, no small task for a man,
a writer, an author, a target of hate crimes, of politics and fear.
Lift the veil of the cult of personality, not a god but a man,
maybe I was confused, full of misperceptions, delusions, illusions,
after he signed the books, he asked me a question, "Where was I from?" The plan,
not to engage with myth, legendary figures, I said, "Bombay," knowing
Rushdie's mother gave birth to him in that city of millions. He asked me,
under duress for time, if I was a Muslim, with my short beard showing,
so I told him the truth, I grew up Catholic, a Goan, he could see.
Here our conversation ended, he signed my book and left, my confusions
in the book trade, authors were people without fault, disciplined like Buddha,
endless days of writing, confined to a small room, in solitude, alone,
an imagination, worlds of their own making, characters formed from mind,
from experiences with people, animals, their karma, the dharma,
the law of his conscience, hidden behind a veil of suffering and joy,
even as small boy, I knew the right from wrong, I went astray, a bone
rejected by the earth, a bone to pick with God, I could see, although blind,
truth found in metaphors, figurative language, lies held up to the light.
How in disappointment, I walked away to do my job, ever so coy,
ever so rye, I drank up the experience like Bourbon, mother's milk.
Queen Elizabeth was not my thing, royalty. Their association,
ugly with history, with Partition and death, tearing apart the silk,
ever so durable, how unaccountable, Mountbatten, our nation,
ever so divided by their own treachery, their greed, as if a right,
no longer so confused, Rushdie chose royalty and fame over justice.
Killing Salman Rushdie is no longer the game of fatwa, is that why,
needless to say, he asked if I were a Muslim, his safety in danger,
if I could know the fear, the courage he displayed in public, Augustus,
Gaius Octavius, adopted son and heir of Julius Caesar,
how does an emperor look back on his empire, Rushdie did not seem shy,
the reservations held by so-called introverts, I was but a stranger,
ever so close to death, he walked lightly on earth, but this was his empire,
devoted to writing literature, essays, novels, he was kaiser,
how South Asian writers understood their status, their position in kind,
ever so dubious was his tenable reign, not tenuous or slight,
realizing my place as a poet displaced by migration, I find
South Asia, a construct in literary terms, united by a blight,
of cancer incarnate, the devils fled our lands and set our world on fire.
Under circumstances beyond any control, murders, bloodshed took place,
to hold accountable the King and his empire may appear misguided,
how does ethics fit in to history, mishaps, misshapen by progress.
Asian born but not bred, my family fled Bombay for London, just in case
stupidity is mine to bear at three months old, I did not get to choose,
in all respects, I am American by right, as a youth, derided
as not American, a British citizen until thirteen, profess
no nationality, unless under duress, such is humanity.
Subjects of soil and earth, I return unto death, heartbroken, born to lose,
unless the lottery, I should win, stoned to death, I shall not hold my breath,
but accept my status as a non-resident, such is my origin,
just as my family left, I shall return, back home, to India, let death
entertain the boundaries, India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, the dust bin
created by migrants from ancient Africa, seeking prosperity,
to survive as nomads, wandering the whole earth for food, security.
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