8 in the Evening at MG Road

Sunday is a holiday
Shops are closed
In the city
Streets are deserted

Children eating supper
On footpaths, mothers
Are casting nets to seal
Their darlings from the night predators

Lonely, lovely night
Streets and alleys are half-dark
8 in the evening at MG Road

Buses, cars speedily pass
A man is boiling rice in a jug
Some are sleeping on the street
As warm limbed corpses

A saloon, a lone customer,
Beside him, dogs lie like logs

Another sight
Rice is boiling,
Mother watching mobile
Her dreams are waiting for a meal

Men are taking tea beside I ❤️ Kolkata
While chatting and healing
Day’s vilest wounds

Two steps away
A pair of men of the city are cooking
To keep fit
For tomorrow’s duels

Parties, processions, slogans,
Shops, fairs, business, blocks,
Generations waste on footpaths

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I write because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, said George Orwell. As a writer, I never kowtow to the whims and dictates of the sacred godmen or godwomen, the political bigots and hypocrites, dealers of laymen, the dishonest and self-serving intellectuals, traders of religions, the betrayers of ‘other’ Indians who eke out a living by their sweat, who are living in fear for being lynched for this and that.

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