When children cry I cry. When a girl is raped I laugh as a madman , when a clash is fought among imagined enemies I howl in pain. When a house is torched, I become its ashes. When a child cries At dead of night , I shudder. When I see the beggars Lay coiled with dogs I count my days. When I see enlightened souls Bargaining hard at potato shops And smartly use cards to pay exact And earn reward points more I praise the market. When I see the elders
1 Bilkis! you are not Lucrece you have no lily hand or rosy cheek and your eyes are not marigolds, hair not golden threads either or skin snow white. 2 and why not? you are harmless you are a pure woman. and you are marauded not in feather-bed but on a fleeing highway truck, not by king Tarquin but by a gang of lecherous, leprous poltroons and the site of sacrilege is not Ardea it is Dahod. 3 truck seized and gale of carnage begins. men murdered and children smashed to death. blood spilled over your frightened face, You
A gifted versetile writer who writes excellent stories and poems on the invisibles, pariahs, margins, aged, weaklings of our society. A rising star on the literary firmament.
“Your story Undersell left me with a lump in my throat, so did your poem, He also lights candles.”
"A finely honed observational piece recording the minutiae of everyday life. Rendered with the author’s customary poetic aplomb suffused with a Borges like quality of the mythic."