On Holy Days

I don’t wish my friends on holy days any more
I don’t celebrate holy days as I find nothing to celebrate
Each holy day digs my grave deeper and deeper.

Times have come to such an end.

Once, I wished even my haters and killers with fire and foam,
wished my lovers and hearts borrowing light from the heavens,

Today, foes and friends stand on equal footing,
On holy days, I stand naked even to my own people.

Anyway, I still, at times, wish good mornings
as the sun dispels the dew from the blades of the grass,

and good nights as the sky becomes starry, whitening the trees,

to a bunch of fools who still believe I hold keys to some holes
of the sky and the earth.

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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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