IDENTITY OF THE DEAD
Sunlight slanting through the branches
fell on a dead body lying
beneath the road side tree;
unshaven face, sunken eye sockets,
tattered clothes covering a skeleton
of hunger, neglect, deprivation.
The onlookers stopped awhile,
gathered at the site,
cast a curious glance, then went away.
Nothing surprising,
such scenes not unusual;
soon it faded from the collective memory.
But suddenly there was a commotion.
A rumour was afloat:
the dead man might be a dalit.
Queries started mounting.
Who was he? Really a dalit
or somebody else: a homeless beggar?
Media men thronged the village
to ascertain the veracity;
TVs showed it repeatedly
as a breaking news.
Apprehending the tag of anti-dalit,
the power that be set up an enquiry.
Controversy not dying down
continued to raise an accusing finger
amidst spurt of denial.
Finally the findings were out: no, not a dalit.
A sigh of relief was heaved -
vote bank not dented!
Poverty, hunger may stare in the face,
driving the poor to commit suicide.
They die anyway. What's the big deal?
But how can a dalit take his life?
Peripheral, ostracized, yet
appeased, sought after at the hustings!
Dalit - downtrodden
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