Poverty

Poverty 

Poverty is real

Its all around

We see it

Every day

Help a few

With a coin or two

We’re doing out bit

It’s too large a problem

It isn’t going to resolve

My contribution 

However large

Will only be 

A drop in the option

We do give

We’re not bad souls

To the church

To the orphanage 

To the Home

For the Aged

To the NGO’s

That come knocking

Our share of CSR

From our salary

We’re good people 

Doing our bit

She’s a maid

Very poor

No house

Of her own

She works all day

Without a break

To make

Other people’s life

Comfortable

She has her

Tearful nights

Her body aches

No time to rest

She has at home

To work

Morning and evening 

Finish her chores

There’s no running tap

Big drums to fill

No washing machine

Her clothes to wash

Just a fan

Place to sleep

With her husband

And her son

Her daughter 

Married away

As soon as

She was ready

Now she has

Two children too

Her own 

Battle to fight

Summer comes

It’s a furnace

The tin shed above

It melts her home

She cannot sleep

But she has

To wake up

Finish her chores

And back to work

Rain comes

Water drips

Through the roof

Over her head

She can’t sleep

She has to mop

Away the rain

Finish her chores

And back to work

She doesn’t dance

At the festival

Too tired

The others say

She is aloof

She doesn’t talk

She has no time

Besides 

Her husband 

Doesn’t like it

She’s good looking

She’s friendly 

She might get trapped

By somebody

With a roving eye 

Like me

She helps

Her mother 

Her sister

She doesn’t hand over

Her wages

She squanders

Gives alms

She doesn have

Financial help

The husband

He works

Sometimes

He drinks

Hie earning away

He beats her

She isn’t awake

When he needs her

The household to run

The child to feed

It’s her job

It’s her who wants

The son

Not he

When he grows

He’ll teach him his ways

How to keep

A woman down

Under his thumb

Twice a month

Of leave she’s allowed 

Mostly utilised 

For funerals

She doesn’t go out

For movies

To malls

For shopping

To the beach

Yes she does

Watch some TV

She does go

To the temple

To give thanks

And petitions

For simple things

God give my son

A decent job

Let my grandchildren

Come to visit

That neighbour with cancer

Let him die

That paralysed man

I look after

May he find rest

That young girl

She has no child

Bless her

I’ll worship

Your idle

For five years

If you do

The people she works for

They’re not Hindus

Some of them

Don’t understand

Why so much noise

For her festivals 

The sound is deafening

They criticise 

You block the roads

You snatch our sleep

Your gods are too many

We eat and sleep 

And we’re merry

We do not fast

And yet we’re 

Blessed 

With plenty

Fifteen thousand 

Is what she earns

Slogging away

From morn to night

She’s skilled

She cooks well

So she earns

More than the others

Her knees they hurt

Climbing up the stairs 

From house to house

But never a complaint 

You will hear

She does break down

Sometimes

To her masters

They comfort

They understand 

But they can’t

Intrude

It’s not good

Five hundred a month

To the neighbour

A hundred

To the garbage man

Twenty

To the toilet cleaner

Thirty

To the beggars

That line the temple

Fifty for the chocolate

For the boy

For his birthday

In his house she works

Five hundred

To her sister

Who looks after

Her mother

That’s one thousand

Two hundred 

At least

Out of fifteen

Thats eight percent

I calculate

How many of us 

Do that

No wonder

She doesn’t 

Have a house

Not to worry 

She smiles

God will provide!

That’s faith

She gives so much

Eight percent 

She’s super rich

You must admit

The poverty 

It’s our lot

It lives

In our soul