Looking at the soil that he nurtured
With his blood, sweat and life,
Now, that he had lost his land to corrupt bigshots and middlemen,
He wondered what would happen to his children and wife.
He heard that compensation money
Was being given to the families
Of farmers who had committed suicide
And thought that money could secure his family with ease.
With these thoughts in his mind and tears of blood,
He went up to the tree at the end of his field;
With a rope in his hand and a belief in his heart,
That if not my life, money is what my death will yeild.
As the darkness painted the sky black,
His family searched for him all around;
Finally, what they found shocked the life out of them
As he was hanging from a branch creating a silent death sound.
Drowning in tears, doing the funeral rites
And people gathering to help and sympathize,
After everything was over, a vacuum could be felt;
The importance of his presence is what his family could realize.
Soon after, his son put in an application
To the government for compensation
And after multiple begging attempts,
They finally got a small
amount to save them from starvation.
When his son got a job in the city,
When is daughter was married and gone,
His wife wondered why would he miss these precious moments
That were his dreams since they were born.
One day, when she was cleaning the cupboard,
She found her husband’s
suicide note;
That is when she understood why he took such a drastic step
As she read it multiple times with tears flowing and a lump in her throat.
This not a rare case, it is happening every day
Out of helplessness and not because one chooses;
The hands that feed us are being fed to death
By corrupt ropes that end up as farmers’ nooses.
Why do we act like we actually worship God
And are good people filled with every good intention,
When we support such evil either by observing silence selfishly
Or by participating in the demonic game for our own protection?
No; we are committing a crime everyday
As we choose to ignore reality;
Giving money to charities superficially
Will not stop these occurrences that bleed humanity.
Let us help the farmers while they are still alive;
Let us give their children good education as their armour;
Let us buy their produce directly from them at a good price;
Turn that rope into a chain that binds every consumer and farmer.
Vizzmaya is a wanderer in the land of stories and an explorer in the sea of poetry. She is 10 years old but her life’s experiences make her writing age faster but gracefully. She is awaiting for the release of not just her first book but all her 7 e-books via Amazon by the end of November, titled- Vizzmaya’s wonderland (parts 1 to 7) which contain poems, stories, write-ups and jingles. She hopes they add positive energy to the lives of everyone who reads them and is passed on to others for their betterment.
Vizzmaya Jalal, a Class 5 student of St. Francis ICSE school, Mumbai, is a poetess, a writer, an aromatherapist, a herbalist, a classical singer, a classical dancer, a keyboard player, a basketball and chess player and a linguist who speaks 9 languages. She is an iron girl who sees her bedridden mother medically suffer like hell each day and yet inspires and motivates her to fly higher with the help of my maternal grandfather’s positive energy and take others along with her beyond the clouds of earthly problems and pain to a peaceful place where spirituality and science live together in harmony; thus staying true to her name, Vizzmaya which means wonderment.