The Glass Walled Restaurants. And a Village

Morning walk.

Already an old woman, white haired and fragile, had spread her plastic sheet on the pavement and was arranging her small plastic items there. Some tea filters, some rattles, some plastic scubbers. The entire outlay, her shop, may have cost a few hundreds.

A little further her two grandchildren were playing. Pretty girls. The elder was a fair child, maybe ten. The curly haired younger child was a dark beautiful three or four.

When we passed by the elder one mechanically held out her palm. I steeled up. Facing my shame. At the world we have created.

CUT

PaalaGuttaPalle. Dalitwada.

Many years ago. Our daughter was three or four. I remember. When another child walked into our home eating a biscuit, she spontaneously held out her hand. An older friend, maybe five years old, gently pulled back her hand, "Chei jaapa koodadhu." (Never put out your hand and ask.).

The same community which taught her this, also taught her this. When she was eating, my neighbour walked in. She stopped by her, knelt, smiled and told her, "Thinnetappudu pilu. 'Raa koorcho, annam thinnu.'" ("While eating, call others. 'Come, sit and eat too.'")

Lessons learnt from babyhood. For a lifetime. By all children. To never beg. And to share what one had. The last meal. Even.

CUT

A city.

Glass walked restaurants. The rich feast. Unheeding of the hunger that stares at them.

The poor watch their poverty juxtaposed with excess. Their pride crumbles.

And when pride and self respect crumbles. Everything crumbles.

And the earth trembles. At the wrongs she has nurtured.