Ma Ganga is Merciless in Monsoon

September is the cruellest month
No beatings of drums for Ma
No scent of Shiuli
No Kaash flowers sway in glee, babu,
Here in my village Durgapur
We are biri workers
Work from sunrise to sundown
And stitch thousand biris
And earn Rs 152 each
And make feast under moon
Ma Ganga is merciless in monsoon
It sports and kills us
Its holy water is red with our fresh blood
It makes us refugees in our own land
We don’t know how to spell bha -wani -pore
We do and die at Koltala

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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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