I dozed off in the Cantonese carpentry

While my sister was prescribing spices

On her strong smelling green betel leaf;

Renowned Bengalis in the suburb of Kolkata

Whom my brother-in-law could identify

Were all around us from their day’s break;

Most of them were prescribing China-cooked prawns.

All I remember was the sweet-corn soup;

Some bald wrinkled faces struggling to emerge

Amidst smokes from their high society pipes;

Portraits of some Chinese convicts in Madras;

Noisy gumboots on the stony terrace;

One of the tallest Mickey clowns I had ever seen;

Some fine designs by the crackers in the starless February sky;

Soya sauce stains on the white spread-cloth that became tan.

It was like a Chinese Christmas in India.