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July 2014, vol 10, no 2

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Sanjuktaa Asopa


When the streetlights blink mist and the distant dog barks turn into a whimper; when the windows in the high rises begin to darken one by one and the crackle of the walkie talkies from the occasional patrolling police car only deepens the silence, then the migrants and the pavement dwellers of the city gather to huddle around a fire on the street-corner and talk in low voices about the village, the fields, the cattle that they have left behind. Sometimes someone breaks into a song.

tar-black night...
who scattered those stars
by the roadside