Sitting Naked

I had nothing to wear, 

So I was lying in the corner of the house 

Wearing a torn dhoti. 

By dragging me from that corner of the house, 

Who made me sit in the middle of the haat,

Who declared me naked by poking fingers in the eyes of the people, was called a journalist.

Now, he has a two-storey building in the middle of the city.

The one who started searching for the reasons for my being naked inside the thick old books, 

Started looking for percentage of sugar and salt in my tears, was called a researcher.

Now, He has a fat belly and the fellowship of the University Grants Commission.

The one who cried in pages in the sorrow of my being naked, who composed the poem by adding sumptuous, poignant and dramatic words, was called a poet. 

He got applause and titles in big meetings.

The one who announced in his fierce speech to cut off the hand of the man who made me naked, 

Who took an oath on the streets, on the stages that he would weave cloth for me with his own hands, was called a leader.

He got the crown and the throne.

The one who siezed my land and made a shopping mall with colorful expensive clothes, he was called Business Tycoon. 

He has an annual turnover of billions now.

The one who helped the industrialists snatch away my land, who flogged my naked body with his baton, was called the police.

He received gallantry award and promotion.

Since then, wearing the same torn dhoti, I have been sitting in the middle of this Haat, surprised and mute