Murshidabadi Masons

On a hot May day,
A funeral march goes by the railway track,
I get a seat in the chocked coach
And smile at my luck

Exodus time for south-bound labourers,
Mainly Murshidabadi masons—
They have come in flocks to celebrate Eid at home
A week has passed in mirth and warmth,
Leaving home makes them sad again

I look at my sides
And feel the warmth of the day
By my extreme left a teenage boy is sleeping

And when I closely look at him,
His sweaty, sculptured face delights me,
A cheaply designed t-shirt, hands full of lines,
Face marked with pangs of leaving home,

The morning rays fall on his beaten cheeks
And tales of unending disgrace, dishonour
Drape his days.

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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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