Sometimes in the dark of the night I visit my conscience to see if it is still breathing for its dying a slow death Every day When I pay for a meal in a fancy place an amount which is perhaps the monthly income of the guard who holds the door open And quickly I shrug away that thought It dies a little When I buy vegetables from the vendor And his son chhotu smilingly weighs the potatoes Chhotu a small child who should be studying at school I look the other way It dies a little When I am decked up in a designer dress A dress that cost a bomb And I see a woman at the crossing in tatters trying unsuccessfully to save her dignity And I immediately roll up my window It dies a little When at Christmas I buy expensive gifts for my children On return I see half clad children with empty stomach and hungry eyes selling Santa caps at the red light I try to save my conscience by buying some Yet it dies a little When my sick maid sends her daughter to work making her bunk school I know I should tell her to go back But I look at the loaded sink and dirty dishes And I tell myself that it s just for a couple of days It dies a little When I give my son the freedom to come home late from a party And yet when my daughter asks I tell her it is not safe I raise my voice when she questions why It dies a little When I hear about a rape or a murder of a child I feel sad Yet a little thankful that it s not my child I can not look at myself in the mirror It dies a little When people fight over caste creed and religion I feel hurt and helpless I tell myself that my country is going to the dogs I blame the corrupt politicians Absolving myself of all responsibilities It dies a little When my city is choked Breathing is dangerous in the smog ridden Cities I take my car to work daily Not taking the metro not trying car pool One car won t make a difference I think It dies a little So when in the dark of the night I visit my conscience And find it still breathing I am surprised for with my own hands Daily bit by bit I bury it Written by one anonymous n felt by many

Sometimes in the dark of the night, I visit my conscience to see if it is still breathing, for its dying a slow death Every day. When I pay for a meal in a fancy place, an amount which is perhaps the monthly income of the guard who holds the door open, And quickly I shrug away that thought. It dies a little When I buy vegetables from the vendor, And his son "chhotu" smilingly weighs the potatoes. Chhotu, a small child, who should be studying at school. I look the other way. It dies a little. When I am decked up in a designer dress... A dress that cost a bomb, And I see a woman at the crossing in tatters, trying unsuccessfully to save her dignity, And I immediately roll up my window. It dies a little. When at Christmas, I buy expensive gifts for my children. On return, I see half clad children with empty stomach and hungry eyes selling Santa caps at the red light. I try to save my conscience by buying some. Yet, it dies a little. When my sick maid sends her daughter to work, making her bunk school. I know I should tell her to go back. But, I look at the loaded sink and dirty dishes. And I tell myself that it's just for a couple of days. It dies a little. When I give my son the freedom to come home late from a party. And yet, when my daughter asks, I tell her it is not safe. I raise my voice when she questions "why?" It dies a little. When I hear about a rape or a murder of a child, I feel sad. Yet, a little thankful that it's not my child. I can not look at myself in the mirror. It dies a little. When people fight over caste creed and religion. I feel hurt and helpless. I tell myself that my country is going to the dogs. I blame the corrupt politicians. Absolving myself of all responsibilities. It dies a little. When my city is choked. Breathing is dangerous in the smog ridden Cities. I take my car to work daily. Not taking the metro...not trying car pool. One car won't make a difference, I think. It dies a little. So when in the dark of the night I visit my conscience And find it still breathing. I am surprised for, with my own hands... Daily, bit by bit, I bury it. Written by one anonymous n felt by many...

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