Inside the Skin Was Red

Half kg for farmer Raju, One for the bright man From the second street, One kg and two-four legs for… Chopped the butcher, chopped he, Meat, murmuring, and piled them On the wooden table, Till it equally weighted his own belly. All waited for the meat Packed as they asked to be. Then came a woman, With a country duck, Holding its neck tightly, That it seemed dead already. All that looked at her and the bird. Even did the dogs raise their heads. ‘To sell?’, asked the butcher As he chopped and packed. ‘Nay, please cut the meat for me, And I can pay you’ said the woman. All looked at the duck, With their eyes wide open. On the table sat the duck, Near the chopped meat, Oft making weird sounds. Its head was brown; Bright yellow were the feet and bill. Its silky body with radiant glow, Puzzled the white chickens though. A man stood by the table Patted the bird gently. Then took the bird the butcher And slit its neck to death. He tossed it into the basket, And it danced and danced inside. He took it again, skinned and chopped. ‘What is the best use for pig-skin?’ What is the use for a duck’s too? But without the skin, it makes no difference.