On the Fallen Leaves

On the fallen leaves
I stroll at five in the afternoon

The homeward birds hovering over my head
The lovers on the benches
Whispering to each other’s ears

The sweaty old boys running fast,
As if to arrest falling stars

The boys in red T-shirts are playing football
In the corner of the Square

The stray cows, the tinkling bells of the ghoti-garam man,
The rushing vehicles, the painted women

The mad boy is in a meditation on the gravelled path.

Soon muezzins will call for maghrib prayer,
And the sound of the bells from the nearby mandirs
Will declare the death of the day.

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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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