To Sleep

To Sleep

The past invites me
Knowingly
Opens a door
To a gallery of what has been
A collage of tears, smiles and laughter
With a veneer of regret, happiness and achievement

The future beckons
Tantalisingly
Offers a glimpse
Of a canvas that is yet to be
A delineation of ambition, toil and disappointment
Mounted on a frame of dreams and determination

While

The present buffets
Mockingly
Tossing me and turning me
As I am afflicted
By yet another bout
Of
Insomnia

An Act of Man

Stunted
Head bowed
He shuffles along
Scared he might stumble

Hesitant
Hands twitchy
He drags himself
Terrified of all around

Powerless
Eyes nervous
He glances erratically
Intimidated by people passing

Haunted
By memories
He turns around
Glancing back at time

Staring at an incident, an act of man
That crippled his emotions as only a human can.

A Holiday with a Difference

England 2009. No, it is not the name of any sport event that the popular culture of today can relate to. Nor is it the tagline to the recently concluded Ashes series that the host nation managed to win. Neither is it a global milestone in an era obsessed with landmarks.
No, England 2009 is a personal celebration for me simply because it has offered me an experience so thoroughly enjoyable. It has amalgamated the childhood dreams that were once shared over a decade ago by two individuals in deep discussion about the places they would like to visit and the literary giants and characters in whose footsteps they would literally like to follow. That Elizabeth and I can say those individual dreams have now become a couple’s shared experience is enough for me to celebrate England 2009 in the way I know best – through prose and poetry.
For someone who was first introduced to The Daffodils in Grade 7, for someone whose favourite college course was English Romantic Writing, for someone who would lapse into daydreaming about what it must have been for horse-riding Rob Roy or the dashing Ivanhoe, this holiday has been a personal vindication of the vicarious ramblings that were once inspired by literature. Now, having gazed down at Lake Derwentwater, having driven through the scenic Lake District, and having walked those cobblestones that provide “such alternation in height and depth”, those lyrics and conversations of two centuries magnify memory and immerse one even further into the past.
While Elizabeth can empathise with emotions recollected in literature, her leanings are more towards the artistic achievements that are contemporary to the era of Classical Romanticism. She always enjoys the serene beauty of an art gallery and on one afternoon, a little after we passed the Scott Monument and the National Gallery at Edinburgh, burst out, “Darling, do you know where I would like to spend all my life?” Assuming she was enraptured by the beauty of Edinburgh, I was about to say that we could create such a possibility, when she continued, “… in an art gallery.” Now, while such a desire may not be literally fulfilled, perhaps I can consider Galleria 2010 over the course of the next academic year. For the immediate moment, though, let’s shelve that. Let us just say that the three of us – let’s not forget Calvin – are living the dream that two individuals aspired to when parted at university over a decade ago.
Yet, that is not all. What makes England 2009 even more special and creates those twinkles that Eli notices in my eyes are my “conversations into the past.” Those who have been following the literary efforts of Ency Whyte should by now be familiar with my desire to place the Anglo-Indian identity in some reasonable perspective especially for those who still wonder why I do not speak Tamil at home. “An Unacknowledged Diaspora” does, to a reasonable degree, touch on a theme familiar to “the ones that got away” and the “ones that stayed behind”. For, in England 2009, I - part of a family that stayed behind – managed to bridge over forty-seven years of kindred(?) history with “the family that got away.”
Yes, just two evenings with relatives I had never meant before and one afternoon with a Grand-Uncle whose two or three visits to Arkonam offer vague memories have transported me back in time and placed years of nothingness into better perspective.
Last evening I met for the first time, my paternal grandmother’s brother-in-law, Uncle Denzil. An octogenarian who now lives on his own, he and his wife migrated to England in 1963 with an eight-year old boy and six-year-old daughter. His description of that three-week journey on a steamer from Bombay to Marseille via the Suez made me wonder what it must have been like for this couple who were venturing into a new land with much hope and “just pennies in their pockets and a lot to fear”. Simultaneously, I was transported back in time to my then ailing grandmother and could only wonder at the many thoughts and emotions that must have inundated her as two sisters (Aunt Noreen is the other relative I hadn’t met before.) bid their other three siblings good-bye.
Sadly, I did not get to know my paternal grandmother very well; she passed away when I was hardly four. My other grandparents did offer me many memories that are today a source of pride and joy, but I could not – as a teenager - have the type of conversations that I had, during this holiday, with Uncle Denzil, Aunt Noreen and Uncle Ted (my maternal grandfather’s cousin.) But, if I were to play a fantasy game of my own, I wish I could put them all around one table and host a little family chat show asking them reasons for staying behind or going away, their hopes and aspirations as they continued lives oceans apart, and – if they were given the chance to – revisit those days so many years ago and reconsider their decisions. I do not know whether the reader senses my amazement but whenever I try to picture the 50s and 60s in newly independent India, I cannot cease wondering about the spectra of emotions that different people of the same family felt.
While I do not regret being part of the family that stayed behind, (I will be an Arkonam-Madras boy at heart) I did manage to gain some insight into what Floss and Babs must have felt, I did smile at the fact that teenagers will always be the same no matter the era, I did observe Eli laugh when an idiosyncracy of Pat was delineated with heritage in perspective, I could not help but smile when yet another tale of Joe’s strength was narrated and I could only re-attest a childhood memory of Norman’s bravery.
I have been told that our visit to these three families in London will be replayed in conversation and recalled in individual memory for months after we have gone. I have been told that one cannot believe that “Floss ‘s grandson came to visit us all the way from Zambia”. I have been told – and I have seen – that our visit brought twinkles to the eyes of octogenarians and transported them to the days of their youth.
For here, while I painted them a picture of the Madras I have come to know, they painted me a picture of the Madras that was theirs. For while, Uncle Ted painted me a picture of the halcyon days of the Arkonam institute, I painted him one – sadly – of its decay and demise. While Aunt Noreen spoke of the last time she visited Bab’s house, I told her how I came to be with Babs when she died. And when, over the course of our conversation, Uncle Denzil came to hear that we were alumni of Loyola College, Madras, he gave us a piece of history that we did not know: Nungambakkam railway station was built because of Loyola College.
England 2009: nestled between visits to landmarks popular to many around the world were visits to little towns in the heart of England; in one small corner of a tourist who kept clicking photographs was a small girl celebrating a landscape that was once a dream; in between the mundane conversations of daily touring were moments that inspired the poet within; and complemented by visits to museums that celebrate the legacy of our humanity were visits to old relatives who helped instil pride in one’s personal history. Yes, this was a holiday with a difference – my most memorable yet.

A Modern Tribute to Antiquity

A bit I have travelled, in the cities of this world
Each with a history – a tale that can be told
Through the lens of the roving tourist’s eye
Who often does, with some wonder, sigh

As an ancient tableau in a busy modern street
He does - camera-ready – with much awe greet
Or into a monument with a stellar, glorious past
He might saunter and wonder about the cast

Of characters who had with much energy wrought
The fame and fortune that has become the city’s lot
Or from the imposing zenith of its top-most spire
A city view, its history and legacy admire.

But no town has moved me to so much awe
Than, when from Waverley first I saw
The pomp and grandeur of Edinburgh city
A modern tribute to antiquity.

And though it has moved along with the times
Through its buildings and festivals, history chimes
For each brick and cobblestone is filled with the lore
Of a Gaelic people in the days of yore.

Not a castle, but a city straddling many a precipice
For the architect, it most definitely is sheer bliss
To career down streets that plunge like ravines
And gaze up at spires that greet the heavens

From the castle, the artist, photographer or poet
Can never cease to admire this most splendid set
The numerous shades of brown, black, green and blue
As he gazes down at an all-embracing tableau

Of craggy rock way beyond the deep-blue firth
And architecture of immense historic worth
And meadows with vast blankets of green
That add to the city’s aura, its majestic sheen

‘Tis little wonder then, that simple, mere mortals
Were by this city inspired to open the portals
Of ideas, dictums and ambitions in depth incredible
That they have, on history, made marks indelible

As the ones this “alternation in height and depth” has made
On every visitor who has, at least for a brilliant day, stayed
And listened to piping bands tell many diverse stories
Of a city from which he will take away magnificent memories.

The Muse

When with my wife and son, I first gazed down
At the beauty of Derwentwater in Keswick town
I was moved to awe, admiration and sheer reverence
For I was graced with beauty of such immense presence.

Such scenery, hitherto, I had only vicariously seen
On the artist’s canvas and the cinema screen
And of the awe, it could, in us mortals inspire
I had read of in many a poet’s quire.

No matter the angle, position or perspective
This was natural beauty, a landscape most emotive
Of verdant islands in a lake shimmering in the sun
And of shades of green, that did, to the horizon run.

Of majestic mountains masked by slivers of mist
And swans whose necks did gracefully twist
To the sounds and chirps that filled the air
As I simply continued to “stand and stare”

At flecks of white scattered all across the dale
Content to, in such beauty, ruminate and regale
As the sun shone down and the wind rapaciously blew
At the stream of tourists that steadily grew

Yes, this was nature in its grandeur and pomp
Through which man could at his leisure romp
And take in this theatre of such verdant green
That has for more than centuries been

An inspiration for “emotions oft recollected in tranquillity”
The muse for a simple and rustic school of poetry.

The Art in Life

'Tis an art to live
For the portrait of one's life
Is not easy to draw.

Your choice of canvas
You must discern
And the lens of subtlety
Prudently learn

The depths of emotion
You must tint and shade
Its vibrant colours
Passionately grade

The people around
You must artfully stroke
And in the correct oils
Your brushes soak

Traces of reality
With skill, reflect
Small strokes of meaning
At your peril, neglect

The vagaries of situations
With deliberation, you paint
Leave no negligent smudges
That, could, your canvas taint

Yet, expect no praise
From all around
And take the stings
Of criticism as they abound

For...

'Tis an art to live
And the portrait of one's life
Is not easy to draw.

The Invasion of Privacy

The invasion of privacy…

Is an assault on personal life
A public display
Of a private retreat

The invasion of privacy…

Is an intrusion on a closed conscience
A public magnification
Of a secluded soul

The invasion of privacy…

Is a foray into isolated territory
A public attack
On a silent psyche

The invasion of privacy…

Is the terrorism of individual emotion!

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

Like some of my poems, this was also written for a school assembly, but for a much younger age group. Each couplet referred to one distinctive global event that was displayed in a slideshow.

What a difference a day makes
A minute, a second is all it takes
To create history, to change the world
To embark on ventures, brave, new and bold

It takes a day for war to start
A day that will, for years, tear nations apart
It takes a day for life to begin
One that will, on another day, a new nation win

It takes a day to launch a new career
One that will, our lives, into a new era steer
It takes a day to realize the work of a lifetime
Work that will, one day, be praised in song and rhyme

It takes a day for a typhoon, tsunami or earthquake
A day, that will, millions of lives rudely shake
It takes a day for disaster to strike
Disaster that will take away the people and things we like

It takes a day for you and me
To be the people that we can be
It takes a day for you to grow
And the friend of a lifetime, get to know

What a difference a day makes
So, let us give it all it takes
To make this day, special and good
To be the people we can and should.

BEing HUMAN

BEing HUMAN

In order highlight our ability to go beyond race, sex and religion and succeed for our very humanity, I recited this poem at a school assembly.

I may be black, brown or white
I may be clever, or not very bright

I may be Indian, Chinese or Brit
I may be strong, or not very fit

I may be Hindu, Muslim or Jew
I may be popular, or have friends that are few

I may be a gentle lady, or a stoic gent
I may be young, or a life nearly spent

I may be very tall; or rather short
I may be wealthy; or be a ‘have not’

I may be…
Many things…

But ONE thing I know…

I AM

HUMAN

ONE of a kind, a very ‘rare’ breed
With the will to survive and the power to succeed.

Memories To Cherish

A tribute to the Simba International School Class of 2009.

There is this class that I have come to know
In the years I have been here - totalling four
But now it’s time for them to leave, to depart
And on new ventures or in new places make a start.

And to them , in this verse, I will pay tribute
Their humour, wit and character quietly salute
For in the time that I’ve been here
They have given me moments of much cheer.

No one in the hostel could ever be blamed
If they did not believe the grade that this lad claimed
That he had entered so that his wizardry he could spin
Who could it be, but Diminutive Dilan?

His partner in crime, when it comes to studies
Over talks in physics they have become buddies
But for many of you he has the longest surname you’ve heard
The guy many of you call Professor Richard.

From faraway you can see this lass giggle
And when she talks she does sometimes wriggle
Yes, she is full of spunk and the pool offers her much glee
For she loves to swim, ever-smiling Lesley.

Once part of a group called the Gossip Gangsters
She will go down as one of Simba’s cleverest pranksters
And she once chewed me out, my ears were in such pain
For she kept on chattering,, Lively Lorraine.

Perhaps one day this young lady might write a book
For she sometimes wanders with that day-dreaming look
That one often links with those who write a span
And she is the ever-imaginative young Fran.

There seemed a time when this lad seemed on course
To begin an adventurous career with the Royal Air Force
But thoughts of becoming a Chef have since then been
At the back of the mind of – who else – but Jonathan?

And if Lorraine once put my ears in a spin
They just could not manage to bear the din
When on a recent afternoon, such jabbering was spun
That I ran away from a loud and animated Anam.

When on my first class trip to Wildtracks I went
Many memorable moments with bubbly youngsters I spent
And it was there that I learnt it was so very easy
To “monkey” up a tree, especially if you are Zebreezy!

This lad’s sense of humour is nice, pretty cool
For he is the cheekiest lad there is in this school
And one afternoon, my time I was compelled to fill
With an engaging chess match with amusing Darrell

She may be short in stature, but on spunk she is tall
And she played her part in answering the “Indo-Zambia” call.
So full of life, animated, cheering her friends with so much glee
Let’s hear it my friends, for little Vidhi – and perhaps Billy!

Of late, she has said she might be going to Spain
And in that country she could have a lot to gain
And perhaps, eventually extend her spell
For Spain’s now become a tad more attractive for Anabel.

I will stop right here with this young lot
And move on to salute the other group that I’ve taught
A group that moves even further on, taking another huge leap
As their date with destiny they slowly begin to keep.

Monday mornings have always been so much fun
For I sprinkle class with takes on teams that have lost and won
On the weekend, in Premier League Games, home and away
And why, for The Gunners, it just wasn’t their day.

But, on such occasions, I would have to wear a shield
For two passionate fans, would, with piercing eyes, missiles wield
Ready, of course, to attack if I would dare even to say
That they were sad Arsenal fans, Kambole and Lombe

I am not naming you all, for it would take too much time
And this verse would become a rather meandering rhyme
But in preparing for this evening, this marvellous night
I thought of you all and how I possibly might

Tell you that the memories you offer every little while
Can often at many later moments offer many a smile
And, on behalf of the teachers here, I hope I make it clear
Each one of you has given us many memories dear.

And, it is our hope that as you all move on in life
To meet its ups and downs, its joy and strife
That you will continue to offer “Memories to Cherish”
For people who will then, your company greatly relish.

A Tribute

People often ask me why I always prefer to write
Not under my own name, but that of Ency Whyte
And this question often takes me back in time
To childhood moments that are the theme of this rhyme.

My maternal grandfather was he, Norman Charles White
And as a tribute to his legacy, this verse I will recite
So that those questioning minds who read my poetry
Will know the tale of ‘Ency Whyte’ and what it means to me.

Of course, he was my granddad, but also so much more
For he taught me the lessons I would need to know
If I were to carry on with his penchant for writing
And for the English language pursue my liking.

Balmy summer nights are still a vivid memory
And how wondrous, for four young lads, it used to be
As we’d sit on his stomach and regale in tales of a child
Who’d put “ants in dhobi’s pants”, and all pranks wild.

Schooling, for him, was not much joy or fun
And by Grade Eight, with St Bede’s, he was done
But such was his love for grammar, its syntax and structure
That studying and teaching it, gave him much pleasure.

Though long ago, I sill remember one rather informal class
When I learnt how a sentence and its syntax I could parse.
And since then, for me, the English language has been so much fun
That with its intricate nuances I am not yet done.

Poetry he enjoyed and he often loved to recite
The poems that he would at his desk, passionately write
Each occasion, each milestone, each event in his time
Warranted the legacy of a verse, a tale in a rhyme.

Perhaps watching him put his pen to paper
Has allowed me to see how words can caper
And bring a smile to the reader’s lips
As with their twist and turns, he comes to grips.

And when I began to show some serious intent
Of writing and pursuing this inherited poetic bent
I thought of how I could pay tribute to the legacy
Of “N C White”, his ideals, his deeds, and his memory

For with two daughters who had been married
This popular name in Arkonam would, with him, be buried
So I asked myself how I could in my own way salute
And to this influential figure continue to pay tribute.

And so, I strive to do and continue with what he did best
Play with language, with words and put them to the test
And that is why under this pseudonym, today I write
So that I can carry on his legacy with “Ency Whyte.”

On My First Visit To Victoria Falls

The smoke that thunders, they say you are
And when I first saw you from a distance quite far
The tales I’d been told and the stories I had heard
Seemed to match this wonderful sight, word for word.

But, such is the wonder of natural beauty
That no second-hand tale can fulfill its duty
Of portraying the wonder, the respect and awe
That within me, welled, when first I saw

Your curtain of water cascading with such force and power
That one could only admire the spray and revel in its shower
As the trees around sparkled with droplets of perpetual dew
That reflected a sunny sky so full of blue

Not content enough with your brilliance alone
You decide to paint a canvas as beautiful as your own
For that double rainbow, with its sparkling spectrum of light
Is indeed a most majestic and radiant sight

That can move one to such emotions that accompany boyish wonder
When on the Knife-Edge bridge, one can feel your mighty thunder
As pellets of rain unceasingly and perpetually sting
Regardless of whether it is summer, winter, autumn or spring.

Yes, you are a marvellous tribute to the poetry of the earth
Of its immense bounty, its rhythm, its theme and its worth
A song whose melodies will never cease to be
A splendid canvas on which one will always see

The genius of a master, a poet, an artist, a conductor all rolled in one
You, the smoke that thunders under the scorching Zambian sun.

The Canvas

Spread before you is a canvas of hope and opportunity
Waiting to be painted with strokes of what you are and can be
Waiting to be filled with colours that define you and the life you live
Waiting to be stamped with the personality that only you can give
To the portrait of your life, by itself a work of art
A work which, on this day, with vigour you will start

Spread before you is a canvas of vision and desire
Waiting to be sketched with shades of passion and fire
Waiting to be decorated with a story and theme
Waiting to be etched with ambition that is now just a dream
Of a picture whose tone, texture and style
Would have made this work worth all the while

Spread before you is a canvas, empty, yet full of space
Waiting to be stroked with your wit, charm and grace
Waiting to be brushed with strokes daring, vivid and bold
Waiting to be painted with a story that can be told
Of a life whose essence is one of sublime beauty
Of a person who lived his life and did his duty

Of a person who lived life the way it should be
Of a complete canvas that will reflect many a memory.

An Unacknowledged Diaspora

The annals of world history do clearly record
The aftermath of Partition and the bloody discord
The violence, the horror, the grime and the gore
On trains that plied from Amritsar to Lahore

But not even a footnote in history’s dusty archives
Makes mention of the hundreds of thousands of lives
That were left to ponder their future and fate
Upon the creation of a new Indian state

For what would now the Anglo-Indian do
Under the rule of leaders, alien, hostile and new
Would he be allowed to continue, to play his part
As into an independent age, did this new nation start?

Or would he become an alien in his motherland
A stranger who did not to know where he could stand
In the hopes, aspirations and dreams of this new nation
Would he be allowed his colony and his railway station?

Or would he have to leave it all behind
And in a new nation, fame and fortune find
Could he continue to teach, dance and drive
Or, in the land of his birth, would he no longer thrive?

These questions must have accompanied every family meal
For apprehension, fear and doubt, he did surely feel
And, on the day, a nation was set free
He was fettered in the chains of uncertainty

And thus began a diaspora of which very few know
An event in our history that no archives show
The migration of “half-castes” to England and Australia,
With only pennies in their pockets and a lot to fear

Many, of course, chose to continue and stay
While they prayed for the ones who went away
To corners of the world, far and wide
From the railway colony that was once their joy, their pride

Of this exodus, no historian makes mention
Its impact on history seems to deserve no attention
But to a now fast dwindling community
It’s part of their history, their very identity.

AN ANGLO-INDIAN ICON

This poem is inspired by a recent photograph of the railway institute in Arkonam. I do not know if such is the state of railway institutes elsewhere in India. However, I am sure many in AJJ will relate to this poem.

I stand here now, lonely, lost and decrepit
For I no longer seem good enough and fit
To be the host of any joyful celebration
Such is my fate, such is my station.

Weddings I have hosted, many dances too
Under my eye, many lads and lasses grew
And at Chrismas time, I was so full of cheer
For it was the best time of the year

Alone and with heavy heart, I now recall
Crowning the May Queen, hosting the June ball
Watching parading lads and lasses in fancy dress
Smiling, when a priest, would another wedding cake bless

I was the heart and soul of any festive season
And to many people I was the reason
They could shout “Housie” or dance the night away
Or with fun and frolic, Wheel of Fortune, play

Yes, my red brick walls and my creaky wooden floor
Saw a wonderful, enterprising community grow
One that filled me with their music, cheer and dance
But, alas, now I am no longer given the chance

Which is why I can only stand here and simply cry
While the grass that does, around me, wither and dry
And wonder where all those people have now gone
As I gaze out at the railway tracks, with a memory forlorn

Yes, as the trains whizz past, taking people here and there
I can only silently stand, gaze and stare
At a period in time, when I could proudly boast
That, of the entire town, I was the toast

So, my friend, if anything, let this my verse pay tribute
To an Anglo-Indian icon – the good, old, railway institute.

Christmas Cheer

It’s a December evening, we’re back from school
The house feels nippy, as a breeze nice and cool
Wafts through the trellis, while Papa gives a rendition
Of carols that herald an annual family tradition

Mummy’s come back with bread, eggs and flour
We little children, get ready for many an interesting hour
Of digging our fingers into a tub full of batter
As the house vibrates with loud, cheerful chatter

It’s that time again, that time of the year
For, cul-culs and cake and Christmas’ cheer
To roll out on forks, an Anglo-Indian delight
And to grease the cake tins with all our might

As "Mum-mum" calls out for us to ‘take care
Or we might fall into the oil that’s boiling there’
Which is ready, of course, to crackle and splutter
As we dip in forked creations of eggs, flour and butter

The whole family sits at the dining room table
Each one doing what he or she is able
And stories are told of Christmases past
While ros-a-cookies are, into the boiling oil, cast

When the whipping and blending has been done
And the cake’s in the oven, it is time for more fun
So we lick our fingers with many a hearty smack
At left-over batter, a tasty pre-cooked snack

That comes for us, only once every year
A time that is filled with memories dear
As carols croon in the chill evening air
And family stories, Papa, does joyfully share

It’s been years now, since I have had such fun
And I hope, I can, one day relive it with my son
Those hours spent in a house on a railway colony
Hours that I now recall, with a smile and much glee.

ONE OF A KIND

Quite recently to a spring dance I went
Where many a happy hour was spent
With my wife who is a Malayalee
And diverse friends who danced with glee

On this night, “tradition” was the theme
But, to many, it did quite rightly seem
That I wasn’t in the proper attire
For someone who comes from India

The veshti from the South, the sherwani from the north
With intricate colours and textures wrought
Would have, with chappals, added to the “desi” touch
As would the kurta, pajama and such

To clearly explain why I was in coat and tie
I had to point out where my origins lie
And, hence, began a tale about the “dingo”
A culture and community of which very few know.

For, despite being the bastards of colonial rule
We pioneered the Indian railway, telegraph and school
And created our own mix of culture and community
A brand with a unique Anglo and Indian identity

We are English by name and Indian by birth
A community that loves laughter and mirth
A culture unique to both, India and the world
Forged from a spirit, daring, adventurous and bold

Our culture is as diverse as it is unique
For there is a common touch to our food and music
As there is to the language we speak, write and sing
Though from wide corners of India we spring

We might be the leftovers of a British empire
But our food has its own flavour and fire
For, if you’ve tasted coconut rice and ball curry
You would not leave the table in a “hurry-burry”

And when the heavens pour down and cry
Be sure there’s pepper water and beef fry
Or if “Santa Claus is coming to town”
There’s ginger wine to knock him down

With cul-culs, rosacookies and Christmas cake
That the entire family did, joyfully, make
Or he could even try our dawl, rice and vindaloo
For these are, our favourites too.

The most interesting trait of any ‘dingo”
Is the unique touch he adds to his lingo
For, down south, he’d say “Enna da maacha”
While waving to a friend at a corner quite far

When my wife speaks to her father, she calls him “Papa”
A term we use for grandpa, and for, grandma it’s “Nana”
Who can give you a “kottu” if you are bad
And tickle you with “bully ants” if you are sad.

Or they might have even given you the “fijacks”
If you, “little bugger” had done something behind their backs
Or while eating cutlets on the way to Velankanni
You say the rosary and sing “Serangani”

We love our music, song and dance
And at festivals you can see us prance
With the chacha, foxtrot and the jive
To the tunes of a band, that is vibrant and live

At your wedding, the “Grand March” is played
And with confetti, you are loudly sprayed
While the band plays Engelbert Humperdink
A toast is raised and glasses clink

Charley Pride and Jim Reeves may quietly croon
On nights when the family sits under the stars and the moon
Or you might play the guitar under the trees
And enjoy your booze in the afternoon breeze

In different corners of the world, we now reside
But in our heritage we take great pride
For even though our “fathers” once left us behind
We blended in and created a community, one of a kind

So, if my English name with my Indianness, one cannot relate
This poem I will recite, or this tale I will narrate
To give them a picture of the good, old Anglo-Indian
A community that was once conceived in sin.