A Tribal Mother

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Coldest day
And a euphoric sight!

A tin shack in a furrowed field
And in its empty yard
A tribal mother and her eyes’ kohl
Raking fallen leaves
To cook a meal lean
And beat the day.

Mother is bloodless
And her child lean
Ill-fed, ill-clothed,
They nakedly clash with the cold.

Hazy sunset, smoky, mud-oven,
She, at times sings and sways
And her flesh mashed to her arid breast.

(The poem is taken from my collection Undying Embers, Authorpress, 2022,p. 40)

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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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