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The day breaks
Khedi leaves her shack,
Marries the makers of the day

Back is bent
Swollen legs
Eyes are hazy

Babus need work
All are angry
They want more
But Khedi is old

Piles of dishes
Mounds of clothes
Floors must look clean as glass

Sweat never dries
Hands always at work
She keeps fit
To bear the blows of babus

Babus call her Khedi,
Once she had a name
Babus now erased it with love

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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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