1
It all started with stubborn Magan saying
I want to live.
The Gujarati literati were dumbfounded:
You dolt, is that ever possible?
The young clamoured on one side — what about
our experimental periodicals ?
On the other the elders rebuked — this
way centuries may pass idly.
All agreed upon this — if you chose to live
then quit the sanctum of literature.
Done, said Magan.
The moment he stepped across the threshold
a miracle occurred.
From the niche appeared the goddess Saraswati
and informed the king
that where Magan went she would follow.
And behind her — Goddess Experiment,
Miss Realism, Mr. Rhythm — all wanting
to leave, all adamant.
So they decided, all right, you trouble-maker
stay and rot in that corner.

2
But the fellow whose name was Magan,
a few days later says, I want love.
All right, you nut.

So we took him to Apollo Street.
In the picturesque square, an
impressive building. In the building
a secret chamber under lock and key.
Took Magan to the State Bank's safe-deposit vault —
as stated in the scriptures, brought a priest
along to recite mantras
— handed one key to Magan and kept the other.
Then with a chant of glory to
Ramchandra, Sita's Spouse, opened the locker,
Here, take love,
But the son of a bitch Magan says — this is not love.
If this is not love then what is it, you
bastard?
All the bigwigs — prizewinners, medallists — have
taken love for their stories, poems and plays
from this very source.
And you, fancy idiot, claim that this is not love.
What is it? If this is not love what is it?
What is the purpose of keeping it in the
safe-deposit vault then?
So you can use it when necessary and return.
It never goes out of style.
All those veteran professors use it year alter
year and some of them have used it for
twenty-five years — yet it stays brand new.
But
this prick Magan, he says —
I want to live and I want love.

Well then.
Crazy Magan was locked up in the House of Letters.
The place has western-style latrines.
In the morning everybody used paper.
Need a lot of paper: but that Sardarji
from Times of India distributed huge rolls
of paper which were left hanging there.
Then, all the literary big-shots
— old and new —
put their signatures at the bottom of the
paper after use.
And the contents would be published in
periodicals or read over Akashvani.
In the case of an upset after bad food,
an entire novel could be serialised.
On anniversaries and festive occasions, special
numbers and anthologies would be brought
out from this stock only.
This swine of a Magan did his work
really well.
Early every morning, he would do the job —
and forget to sign,
But those literature-loving editors would
always be lurking around,
They would grab a new poem (even if it had
been discarded)
and print it under the name of Magan,
poet extraordinary,
Only rarely would they put their own signatures . . .
(Generally speaking, there are some ethics in
our Gujarati literature. No one would pinch.
another's poem).

And within a year, Magan got the State Prize
and five or six gold medals.
And then there were celebrations and
felicitations: Every paper announced that on
a certain date and day, a felicitation programme
for Magan, the poet emeritus, would take
place with the following speakers and
who the chairman would be, plus a long list
of well-wishers
Each one of them spoke. What oratory!
Someone mentioned Kafka, another spoke of
Mallarmeta and still another of Narsinhmeta.

Someone spoke of the love between a camel
and a cow,
And each one had an anecdote to relate.
Auspicious and inauspicious — all was revealed.
Finally someone happened to remember :
let that swine Magan say a few words.
The chairman was all set to press the bell
saying one, two, three, speak—
And Magan, the dolt, the poor idiot (one
pities him) says (the same, what else?), he
says (and this after receiving the prize for poetry),
says I want to live. I want to love.
I want to write a poem.