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

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