Look — on every wall the rows of cow-dung cakes;
on each one, a deep print of a hand.
Can you see it, dear Watson?
This is the clue
to this country. This strange wall-book of shit and sun;
every crease bearing the print of grief-
stricken, Dravidian fingers of skinny women —
Tell me, Watson, how many (respectively) crimes, manslaughters, sunburns,
heresies have you identified in this?
(This is my translation of a Bengali poem, titled ‘শার্লক হোমস-এর ভারত-ভ্রমণ’, by poet Ranajit Das)
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