India’s seventh-best poet doing knee push-ups in my living room: he’s put me on the ‘shit list’. I look at him anoint my exercise mat with sweat. Outside, Bombay is a snafu of manholes and lost chappals. For the last two days it has rained over his sessions with the shrink; so, needing endorphins, he lunges. As fiction writer, my umbrage is limited-- his stay has given us a poem each. *
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