At the strike of the noon bell
he pops out of the shaft
like a pea shot from the muzzle of a bazooka.

He plods on iron-spiked boots
to stretch limbs on a coir-mattress bed in the compound,

With gnarled hands
Daubed with gold-tinted ochre
to wash a face
and armpits mouldy with sweat of pushing a cocopan
down the rails into the ore crushing mill.

He shakes a plastic “skal” in a noisy beerhall
and gulps down the beer
and strikes his chest,
a victor over a day’s work:
“Hurray I’m the brawn
And you’re the brain”.