When we walk through
the silenced corridors of the office,
when we attend meetings
with unknown and unseen faces
with their American smiles
at our Indian ways,
when we bicker over a technical snag
in their communication system
and which we have to fix nevertheless,
when we report to our managers
about our weekly tasks
based on what the Americans want,
and later when we have our coffee
with unlettered men jubilant about the economy,
in all these moments,
in these moments that time steals from us,
Walt Whitman remains unread,
Thoreau remains unread
and Hawthorne remains unread
in some remote academic library.
Without ever been to America
we have become so much American
in our words, ways and nods
except for Walt Whitman,
Thoreau, Hawthorne and many others.
