in condescending tone.
The fat zamindar walks
around staring to detest
our shadows in front of his
home.
Most refuse to offer us
water and even the virtuous
ones serve low-grade
beverages in discarded cups
that are kept outside their
thresholds, and they-
Scream how we're born
from of the feet of the same
God they worship.
So much hate for a little
foot fetish, that the roads of
our streets are-
Deliberately bent away
from all the temples in the
village, to protect their
religious sanctity.
The intention of our thirst
is questioned at every pond
and borewell, and even the
nature of protein in our food
is a national issue.
Then the silent gag on our
mouths, the voice stuck like a
wad in our throats-
We try to put warm-salt-water
to gargle it out every election.
But all we can muster up is a
bad cough that is often
syruped down by luring our
votes for money and alcohol.