On a somnolent noon,
I suddenly feel tempted, to dump
The rags of life, on a cool marble floor,
And, see that sequestered street.
As I descend, an aroma of simmering milk
hits my senses, evoking crimson images of the pallid tales,
Collected through aimless wanderings in
those lanes of dung soaked walls.
Somewhere a Darzi paddles his machine,
Knitting a pattern of khat khat khat khat…….
They are nothing like the tin beatings,
Every time I hear after India’s victory. Are they
Different, for they produce bread?
That crumbling Rickshaw parched on the garbage heap,
Takes me to the tobacco rubbing hands and;
Front tooth missing face of Chabban Mahto,
returning to his Muluk, with an empty Baksa and emptier eyes,
As his son dies…
Channnnnnn ……dhinnnn……….. A bowl crashes on earth.
I am snapped back
I rise, as I am ready to recede,
To the world of noise and haste.