Member-only story
This is a poem written by the grandson of a poor villager who was sick & traveled all the way to Madras in the 1940s, dying of tuberculosis all by himself in the Govt. hospital. His daughter, never got to see her father and pined for him throughout her life. Now, his grandson is an engineer in the United States.
We were all poor, we were all destitute at some point. Eighty years later in 2021, not much has changed in India.
Don’t look for Humanity now. It died a horrible death, a long time ago.
Just as the British soldiers saw only brown people to be hanged in 1857, while we were busy fighting with each other because of color, caste, creed & religion, the Coronavirus does not discriminate between high & low caste, rich or poor, powerful or destitute, beggar or chief minister.
When will come together?
First I did not care for the hungry, dying beggars I saw on MG road everyday,
They are just some of many millions of people who over populate my country, the fewer the better
Then I ignored the dying, abandoned patients abandoned in the Govt. hospitals,
They are definitely worthless people, if not somebody would have been there to take care of them
