June 29, 2022
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In the morning, routinely a lot of ants try miserably to escape from an immanent apocalypse; the sun is dark-painted, the media reports. In the afternoon in dismay, a group of minor gods yells from a hostel in Bihar to protect their modesty from the claws of an Ouroboros. In the evening the sun rushes so shamelessly in favour of the marauders of a temple. The next day a few rivers die, the day after a few bridges collapse, and the same vicious cycle repeats in broad daylight. The bloodshot eyes of the local officers haunt for illegitimate intimacy. At night, it’s perpetual rather sporadically the tribal villages miserably fail to protect their land from the corporate while India goes to a deep slumber forgetting her pain as usual. __________ Pitambar Naik is an advertising professional. He’s a former editor/nonfiction reader for Mud Season Review and Minute Magazine. His work appears or is forthcoming in The Notre Dame Review, Packingtown Review, Ghost City Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Indian Quarterly and elsewhere. He has a collection of poetry: The Anatomy of Solitude (Hawakal). He grew up in Odisha and lives in Bangalore, India.