*Lovely poem by Ram Jethmalani, who died at 95*

 *Lovely poem by Ram Jethmalani, who died at 95*

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Sometimes in the dark of the night,

I visit my conscience  

To see if  it is still breathing,

For its dying a slow death

Every day.

When I pay for a meal in a fancy place.

An amount which is perhaps the monthly income 

Of the guard who holds the door open.

And quickly I shrug away that thought,

It dies a little.

When I buy vegetables from the vendor, 

And his son "chhotu" smilingly weighs the potatoes,

Chhotu, a small child, who should be studying at school.

I look the other way

It dies a little.

When I am decked up in a designer dress,

A dress that cost a bomb 

And I see a woman at the crossing,

In tatters,trying unsuccessfully to save her dignity. 

And I immediately  roll up my window.

It dies a little. 

When I buy expensive gifts for my children,

On return,  I see half clad children, 

With empty stomach and hungry eyes, 

Selling toys at red light 

I try to save my conscience by buying some, yet

It dies a little. 

When my sick  maid sends her daughter to work, 

Making her bunk school 

I know I should tell her to go back. 

But I look at the loaded sink and dirty dishes, 

And I tell myself that is just for a couple of days 

It dies a little. 

When I hear about a rape

or a murder of a child,

I feel sad, yet a little thankful that it's not my child.

I can not  look at myself  in the mirror,

It dies a little. 

When people fight over caste creed and religion.

I feel hurt and helpless

I tell  myself that my country is going to the dogs,

I blame the corrupt politicians, 

Absolving myself of all responsibilities 

It dies a little. 

When my city is choked.

Breathing is dangerous  in the smog ridden metropolis,

I take my car to work daily ,

Not taking  the metro,not trying car pool. 

One car won't make a difference, I think 

It dies a little. 

So when in the dark of the night, 

I visit my conscience 

And find it still breathing, 

I am surprised. 

For, with my own hands 

Daily, bit by bit, I kill it, I bury it.

...and we call it a living