A Mamuli Event

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During my evening stroll
I overhear a boy telling
his friends that his mother’s
American friend has bought
a helicopter to avoid traffic

Another young man, I hear,
telling his friend to buy a bike
at five lakhs, as it’ll add to his
macho image, and girls of the town
will worship him at night

Another jogger is planning
to buy a swimming pool,
and a land on the moon,
for his love, I hear

After two rounds
I stop and buy a balloon
at five from the hawker
whose plastic merchandise
is worth a pack of cigarette

The beggars gather
under the big tree and painted
women are smoking beedi,
taking the boys close
to their ready-made breasts,
I find it in the gaslight.

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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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