The jowar fields and the ragi crop
Have been replaced by the sturdy
Eruption of sugarcane.
The road is all metalled and
The grand old neem tree, cut off.
The old bus stand is in ruins
And the tramp who slept there
Has abandoned his post.
The women don't walk forever
To fetch water and the kids
With no future don't fancy
Flying the kites.
This village I grew up has been
Painted in bright strokes of
Orange and the green now.
And the sparrows have to seek
Permission before they chirp
Or flutter their wings.
There's political correctness
In the bark of the dogs and
The bigots on both sides walk
Safely with stones in their hand.
Thanks to modern medicine,
The elders don't die early now
And in the village I grew up,
New ideas refuse to come out of
The cattle-sheds smothered by
The new stink.
With "The holy and unholy"
Self-contradictions of purification
In "flesh and urine" of cows- my village
Basks in the utopia of an old order.
With a supposed financial growth
As bedrock of its flawed argument.