The Coop Is Guarded From The Inside.

Inconvenience In Progress, Work Is Regretted.

Like Most People Who Live In India, I Complain About Corruption, But Know That I Can Live With Corrupt Men. It Is The Honest Ones I Secretly Worry About.

The Book Of Your Revolution Sits In The Pit Of Your Belly, Young Indian. Crap It Out, And Read. Instead Of Which, They're All Sitting In Front Of Color Tvs And Watching Cricket And Shampoo Advertisements.

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.

Go To The Tea Shop Anywhere Along The Ganga, Sir, And Look At The Men Working In That Tea Shop - Men, I Say, But Better To Call Them Human Spiders That Go Crawling In Between And Under The Tables With Rags In Their Hands, Crushed Humans In Crushed Uniforms, Sluggish, Unshaven, In Their Thirties Or Forties Or Fifties But Still "boys." But That Is Your Fate If You Do Your Job Well - With Honesty, Dedication, And Sincerity, The Way Gandhi Would Have Done It, No Doubt.