Local WarmingThe amaltas, mad trumpeter of summer,yellow with the droppings of the sun,leans into the north end of his balconyto rattle old pods. April hasn’t yet begun;a Celsius spike has worked its alchemy,set twigs on fire, turned this green-topped mummerblond, so it can rustle-tell in rooted mimethe doom of icebergs calving further north.He stares unmoved; old and out of time,hereafter presses harder than henceforth.Fateh’s ChaatThe crunch of kachauris by School’s front gate,the squish of chana, sonth’s sulphuric ooze,live in your mind but they don’t translate.See, khasta is crisp and not; when you losestiff/brittle you’re down to paapad whichmisdescribes that deep-fried shell explodingin your mouth. The sour, fart-sweet, eldritchgoo swamping your tongue, overloadingyour receptors, nuking both taste and tastelike a dirty bomb, needs tailor-made termsyour readers don’t know which are a wasteof writing time. Salute those antique germsfrom Fateh’s nails, toast your palate’s history,but know some memories can’t be named.That stuffed kachauri is a mysterythat waits upon its Word and lives unclaimed.Give chaat this day its logos, Swami,beyond bitter, sweet, sour, salt, umami.Garg in GoaHe read MarquezIn hot Bardezwhen Delhi’s maniafor Lusitaniahad him in its grip.The red balcao(thanks realtor Rao!)with hingeless doorsand Staffordshire floorswas his bookshipto fiction’s mondo,which sailed to Macondo.Whitewashed churches,rues in his searches,made life Latin and hip.Estado da Ind,was part of his pind,yet its laterite sod,was his near abroad,home, but also a trip.