Cow Dung Collector

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The sun is rising,
dew held up in the blades of grass,
glisten marvellously

Pigeons are cooing,
girls are running,
boys are playing football,
elderly and wealthy are walking
to live long

Khenti is collecting cow dung
in a nylon bag, and
keeping her bag by her side,
she stretches, bends, jumps,
and twists and turns
her poorly sides

The fat girls are skipping,
hopping and dancing
to look smart to their boses,
people know

Why is Khenti copying them?
an anemic mother of two or four,
in a soiled sari, bare feet,
is she trying to lose her weight?
a rickety frame of bones,
or is she copying the girls
to learn the ways of the world?

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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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