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.