I Am Coming Back To New York

Greenwich Village Always Had Its Share Of Mind Readers, But There Are Many More These Days, And They Seem To Have Moved Closer To The Mainstream Of Life In The City. What Was Crazy 10 Years Ago Is Now Respectable, Even Among The Best-educated New Yorkers.

A Rich Man's Body Is Like A Premium Cotton Pillow, White And Soft And Blank. ''ours'' Is Different. My Father's Spine Was A Knotted Rope, The Kind That Women Use In Villages To Pull Water From Wells; The Clavicle Curved Around His Neck In High Relief, Like A Dog's Collar; Cuts And Nicks And Scars, Like Little Whip Marks In His Flesh, Ran Down His Chest And Waist, Reaching Down Below His Hip Bones Into His Buttocks. The Story Of A Poor Man's Life Is Written On His Body, In A Sharp Pen.

Neither You Nor I Speak English, But There Are Some Things That Can Be Said Only In English.

Like Most Of My Friends In School, I Was A Member Of Multiple Circulating Libraries; And All Of Us, To Begin With, Borrowed And Read The Same Things.

Indians Mock Their Corrupt Politicians Relentlessly, But They Regard Their Honest Politicians With Silent Suspicion. The First Thing They Do When They Hear Of A Supposedly 'clean' Politician Is To Grin. It Is A Cliche That Honest Politicians In India Tend To Have Dishonest Sons, Who Collect Money From People Seeking An Audience With Dad.