PARISHES OF MY MOTHERLAND

As the smell of the harvested crop
Wafts across the landscape
Somewhere, far away
A gunshot shatters the silence.

As the heart of an Indian village bleeds
Another village celebrates.
The cries of the dead farmer’s family
Are drowned in another’s prosperity, success and hardwork.

As the ravines stretch for miles together
And the lands cry out for liberation
Morgues get filled, bodies decay
With no place left to bury them.

As the debt rises
Many others take the drastic step.
Names of the dead are noted
And are thus, lost in the pages of history, forever.

Two sides of a village
Exists in India.
One that celebrates the good growth of crops
Another that mourns the death of farmers.
One that produces aplenty
Another that is plagued with famines.
One that performs customs, rights and rituals
To appease the Gods
Another that lights the pyres of the dead.