‘

The city was illuminated and attractive,

Buzzing with swarms of people.

Clad in a dhoti and carrying a cloth bag,

I felt quite out of place, among the jeans and miniskirts.

The skyscrapers were huge and towering,

Twenty times bigger than our mud huts.

Gleaming vehicles zoomed past,

Twenty times faster than our bullock carts.

In every place, to everyone I enquired

About my mother I had lost, two years ago.

But none could understand and help me,

Insensitive, were those rich and mighty.

‘Village yokel’, ‘beggar’, ‘fool’,

They labeled me.

Pushed me away, threw me to the ground,

Kicked me, beat me black and blue.

‘Don’t waste our time, you illiterate fool,

Your mother must hav gone ‘up there’’.

‘How are we to know? Why should we care?’

‘Get out of here, you little thief.’

I buried my face in the grass and cried,

At least mother earth won’t push me away.

Yes, I decided to go away from there,

From where my mother wasn’t.

I was tired and hungry,

The city gave me no food.

I was heartbroken and terrified,

The city gave me no love and care.

But back at home, my heart rejoiced,

To see the greenery, the cows, the villagers.

A warm and cordial welcome I was given

And in my grief, they shared.