pinned
on the Nehru-coat-button–hole,
it
seems the bare-chested man
had
buried it in his bosom.
that
day wasn’t November 14
nor
was it the Natal eve.
having
toiled whole day in the Patel’s farm
with
bodies aching under the scorching sun,
they
were sleeping dead in their midnight sleep.
the
old olagano,
that
untouchable unpaid village servant
was
shouting an azaan-like call at each hut :
‘your
child is thirsty, ma
this
is the time to suckle your young ones…’
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