The gully(lane) is a favourite haunt,
of men who have so much to want-
from over-decorated, rugged dolls.
With eyes brimmed with blackened kohl(eye-liner),
discoloured lips, like worn-out soles.
They place inside- a stinking mattress for you to roll.
They hold the edge of tattered sheets,
Adding up as curtains to hide what’s raw.
In shabby nighties- pretending
to hide what protrudes for show.
Their weathered faces, that wrinkled nose,
That crooked smile, their luring pose.
Their men stare musing, with Paan(betel- leaf)- stained mouths,
“It’s the woman’s luck! That’s what she’s for.”
The nameless children tug along,
In fatherless homes, where they belong.
Their half-shut eyes, under the bed,
Where strangers all night pay and throng.
That smell, that odour, deep and strong....
Of men who sweat out all day long. And also those who look like dirt-
strewn on roads; just one furlong.
The women sit tight,
On broken charpoys(jute beds).
And in their earnings- what  rejoice!
Discuss intrigues of last night’s meet, unabashedly, as if, by choice.
All those who visit these gullies at night,
Do let your women be out of sight,
For an hour too long in darkened lanes,
And then, see them in same old light.