Drapetomani
Deep and darkening galore of dilapidated sheds. Treading on diligent dullness, lives the man I call master. The grass on his side greener, the smile on his face familiar. Whiff of fresh paint. Built on an elevation is his decadent abode. To the door ajar, do my bovine eyes wander. “...a flood hits northern parts of...” “...but I still love you...” “...new version is available for just Rupees...” Disrupted voices boom from channels being switched listlessly, on a TV aged six. Here comes master says Dhena, the milch cow. Tethered to a pole, I am. Master's will, the halter around my neck. I am. Here comes master dragging along his baggy clothes. Here comes master wearing a hat as old as him. Circles I draw. Confined by certain circumference, I draw. Defined by length of rope of master's choosing, I withdraw. Babhru's ruminating. Wasn't much of a talker, that one. His kind, the ploughing ones usually aren't. Master's limp