The night
calls her for sleep
whatever way,
in a hut of dried ,
twigs and leaves collected,
randomly from the woods nearby.
tiring body movements,
the mechanics of mind,
emotional shakes,
blushing faces,
the begging hands,
never plaintive,
quite satisfied with
the fractional mercy
of well attired,
who drives a car to
a mammoth
glass house,
where in
dancing continues
and a game of cockles
till late,
in disguise
to sensual tunes,
on a cosy bed
in a bedroom
festooned
with select tapestry,
readying
for next day's rat race,
away
unknown to
the life
in that hut of twigs
where
the meagre alms conceal
body aches
****** and abusive words
the sunken bellies
and lean skeleton
of a father
guarding the chastity
of a daughter
resting on a
loose stringed charpoy
yet, the next day
calls her to leave
that hut of twigs..

( Chorpoy is four wooden post bed woven with raw strings, and these strings become loose with time )