Of late, my heart has been at war with me; for My village has ceased to be a part of my dreams!
The orange ball of the dawn, The echoing bells around the bullock necks And the yellow blanket of mustard flowers find themselves stranded at the door steps of the world of my dreams.
And I am forced to brood. How come, this metropolis has overshadowed the memories of my village.
The stink of the mixed perspiration in the jam packed compartment of the North London Metro Has overpowered the life-giving fragrance of the soil of my fields.
Jim, Kenneth and Carl have quietly replaced the faces of Budhua, Haria and Sadanand. Pollution generated by the motorized vehicles has sidelined the cow dung of the village life.
How come, ruthless moneylender, stenchy drains and dirty naked children with swollen stomachs are the only living memories of my village?
Lilliputians – political and otherwise brag and puncture the armor of my dreams. The dirty games of village politics keep haunting my memory lanes.
For sure, this Great Metropolis has hidden something special in its lap for me. For it has become My very Karmabhoomi!
