The American and Indian versions of the same Iyerish poem

American version-

Seeing her, my heart leapt, and because it was very Turd World starved and stunted and small, it slipped through its cage of ribs easily enough so as to turn into a cute puppy able to lick her face repeatedly. Then, what happens is, she takes me home and we run eternally through golden fields of corn before, like 'Old Yeller',  I turn rabid and her father takes a shotgun to me. Since something similar has kept happening ever since I got my Green Card, and because such splendours and miseries were and are mercifully brief, I paid that lady whose atavistic loveliness, like a key in a lock, exactly matched my atomised loneliness, and, collecting my burger and fries, went to sit in my car only to, rapt in Ghazzalian reverie, wax diabetic, in Love's Master-Slave dialectic, by but stuffing my face in silence and uttermost solitude. 

Indian version-

Betwixt the ribs of the cage where it, disconsolate, slept

Till, scenting you, my little heart leapt

& my eyes licked your face, eager as a puppy...

Papihara! Thy lash the leash on which I'm kept!

The difference is that in the American version there is the actual 'darshan' (sight) of a possible beloved. In the Indian, it is the 'shruti' (sound) of the repetitive call of the 'brain-fever bird' which does all the heavy lifting. It is enough to hear and seek to see Love's messenger- though nothing is anything else. After all, it is only in the seasonal silence of the Nightingale that the Rose shreds its skirt.