The paper came with the morning tea
And the Naga looked out from the front-page-
The long, dirty beard touching his nipples,
The jagged moustache and jungly hair-
If he had been me, he would have been fair.
‘Naga Sadhu goes digital’
And becomes a cell-phone-walla.
And now on the banks of the dirty river
With a cup of tea in hand
He might be reading himself
In The Times of India.
And what a prize it would be
To see them face to face-
He would be laughing at the pagla sadhu.
Someone tell him, it’s His Grace.
-4/2/2001, Calcutta-63