Jute Planters

In the sun
You burn long, day long
And skin jute plants
In knee-deep ponds.

It’s harvest time, friends!
It’s harvest time!
No time to eat,
No time to sleep.

Forty rainless days
Burn and make you coal
And you bury the dead
Head-bent in knee-deep ponds.

If the market is good
You feast in field
If the market is bad
Still you sing and wheel
Your dream and skin
The dead plants dead
In knee-deep ponds.

(The poem is taken from my collection Undying Embers, Authorspress, 2022, p.29)
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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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