A stone is her food industry,
A smoke a stomach warmer
Rising to blackened sky-roof
Of straws of a year’s vintage .
A big fat stone grates a yellow
Condiment for our stomachs.
Its grate on an afternoon nap
Has eyes dream river breeze.
Yellow paste and grey smoke
Delineate an existence in time
A grate so warm on stomachs
Under a sooty thatch ,due for
A yearly renewal before rains.
The village post master has passions
Smelling of red chillies drying in sun.
His body’s blood has ancestor smells
Vague in blood,with inbuilt difficulty
To pinpoint dads to their grand dads,
The women running own chilly farms
In bodies ,with passions hot as spice
Such as the ancient Europeans braved
Rough seas to discover,a white species
In preservation of red stomach meat.
The gentle man has morals somewhat
Flexible, in a highly progressive village,
Failing to distinguish villagers money
From own ,as the money orders arrive,
His bags somewhat loose and money
Slips through its chinks, like starlight
On many moonless nights on his roof
Where he dries chillies in the nights.
He keeps the secrets of the villagers
When their letters arrive, a custodian
Of community’s secrets, lips sealed
About everyone’s farms, quid pro quo
That makes him a hot village darling.
We do not remember our girls too long
After the warmth of their girl feet is cold.
So let us make hanging statues of them
After our young have duly defiled them
Taking their girlhoods and their breaths.
Girl tears do not come cheap,their cries.
Let us preserve them as statues hanging
On trees,leaving to birds to defile them.
(Two girls were found hanging after their rape and murder by unknown hoodlums,in Badaun U.P)