Death of a mother

Cold early morning
And scent of death is in entangled dew
Bazaar is burnt with flames of woes.
An egg-seller, a mother of
Four playing children, has just died.
By the side of the bazaar
A palace is coming up to kiss
The abundant sky.
A rogue truck, unloading its gold,
Has dashed against a leaning wall,
And under its debris the mother
Has got a clean burial.
Her children
Are still playing at home
And waiting for her gifts of the day.
They will wait and wait and wait
Their mother will never appear
The sun will go down
And the moon never appears
in their desolate sky.

(First published in GloMag, January 2022)

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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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