Today’s meal

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A cuckoo is calling
from a nearby neem tree,
a dozen naked children are catching
dragonflies in the sun,
unaware of the everyday war
their beaters fight

On the mud floor rest
a packet of potato,
a packet of cheap rice,
a tiny bottle of mustard oil,
and a couple of drumsticks–
a hearty meal at the end of the day,
a meal that keeps them fit
for the sun and shower

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Freevoice
Freevoice

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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