All alone a misty noon,
She awakens again
from her mid-day snooze;

Crappy! as her mood may be,
ready she is for another eve;
For work which begins at dusk,
she fixes herself, that lowly husk;

Disconnected from the world makes tea,
tells her clients she’ll reach by three;
Drags herself, a mind, a soul,
back to the bordello;

Works ’round the clock past twelve,
wonders what time she’d leave her hell;
Go back home and watch some cartoons
get in her blank’ie and pinstripe socks.

With swollen feet and tender breasts
she needs to rest;
Stuck at work though she stays
New year’s eve, the busiest of days;

Past sunrise, she works the night,
the diligent worker she is.

Never appreciated,

discriminated against,
mocked if she ever succeeds.

In a hypersexual world
she was born to lead.

She dreams,
to go back home and watch some cartoons
get in her blank’ie and pinstripe socks.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar