A Boy

A banjara boy on the pavement

Left by his mates,
on the busy pavement
he sits under a lamppost
and plays with the sand

A banjara boy
i know his friends
who are begging in the traffic point

Sickly boy in a half-pants
thin limbs
feet covered with dust

Luckily, he finds an ant’s hole
Oblivious of his sides
he collects the sand
and put it into the hole

Is it a play?
Does he need fun?

Two or four hands away
boys in tracksuits
are playing cricket

Evening walkers pass
the little thing
chatting and laughing,
falling and rising

Lovers eating icecreams
men and women
taking tea, and the boy
is playing with the dust
sitting by their manicured feet

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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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