I used to meet the women
pushing the carts and dragging,
I mean the wheel-barrow or the push-cart call you
With the tin boxes
Full of human excreta and the flies buzzing around,
A few violet and green big flies,
The carriers of diseases
And the women perspiring,
In human sweat, toil and tears,
Dragging them
As for the stomach,
The hunger of the belly,
Dragging and dragging and going,
Pushing and taking them away
On the wheels,
Toy-like or tyre-like
And the women going
To empty and cleanse off,
Chewing Indian paan,
Taking a rest
Under the shade of the lonely pathway tree
And the stench baffling it all,
The foul smell engulfing,
The whiffs and the wisps wreaking a havoc
When the wind found to be strong
Whereas instead of them,
A few used to be seen with
A small tanker overhead
And going to dispense with
At the garbage heap
Where the municipality dumped it all.

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