When I Go for Evening Air

When I go for evening air
The painted women look at me while they pass

They wait for men and boys
From 7 to 10, bargain and win in the end

Where do they go?
Hotel or Cowman’s cabin
I don’t know

Bulging bellies, meaty thighs
Carp faces, hurried feet,
Talks of money, car, wine and girls

Dry limbs hurry for a smooth end
Feisty girls to sharpen body ridges

I look upward
Moveless leaves overhang me

No moon or stars
Floodlights at four corners
Whizz of cars, tinkling bells of Ghoti-garom man.

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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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