I met a poor family,
in Dharavi, the black hole of Mumbai.
I met a little girl, her eyes squinted in tears
as soon as I tried to enquire about her problem.
She conveyed her pain..
Why my father is unable to offer anything more than prayers for my ill grandmother?
I have seen many people get free from various sufferings.
Why I can see my grandmother die in pain?
why the doctors have started showing their back after my dad failed to pay their fees?
Why is he rewarded with anger and disrespect even after selling himself.?
This world raped her feelings.
As I met various families throughout the nation,
I could see
The sari and blouse torn in
the poverty of a sheet to wear
in the chilling winters
the snow lakes of the domain
and yet there is no hint of bitterness
The ache because of the attacks,
not just by one winter,
but by the thunder and lightning
spreading no luminescence
A silent flame burns forever
at evening time in the home of darkness.
it’s likely that
the civilised people who affect cultism
do not wish to offer the fire
a single tear
for this emotionally impotent world
Each hurting moment,
each hurting tremor,
every hurting quake,
every unfortunate death,
is greeted with negligance and ignorance.
Not a stir of new blood came
to the frostbitten heels of the old grandmother
to the irregular tunic of the old grandfather
the water jugs filled by a young girl
near this courtyard of poverty
twits the new blood
that
the flowers she has plucked and arranged
unearth countless realities
as she searches in her mother’s torn sari and blouse
and
in her father’s vain sweat,
for the spark…
A spark which could be delivered by us…
Nikhil Chandwani
VIT University
'Campus Writing' 