Fall 1994 • Vol. XVI No. 4 Poetry |

In the War, 1966-67

I later learned we ate our milking goats when meat was scarce in the war, and that our houseboy, Harichand, had to slaughter them and that he was not to stay in the shelter during air raids—he had lice, a loud voice, bad manners, and the stupidity to linger in the sun. Sometimes, in the garage, he'd be beaten for riding Daddy's scooter through town, spending stolen coins on gin, or dozing on the lawn. In sixty-six, Hari quit without a word. We left to inquire at his village. The army was moving through, choosing boys, and Hari rode a green bus to the western border.

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Underground

By Reetika Vazirani

I later learned we ate our milking goats when meat was scarce in the war, and that our houseboy, Harichand, had to slaughter them and that he was not to […]

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