Think Again!!!!!!!!!!

He is born in the grotty maternity ward of a state-run dispensary at a small village whose name is as elusive as its emplacement on the face of earth. The first speck of light meeting his eyes permeates through the sullied curtains overhanging the window. He begins his life in a cramped mud house with a thatched roof, sharing a shabby cot with three other siblings; villas and apartments he has never seen. He is fed on barley and oats and never comes to know the taste of powdered baby food. He shivers in cold, blazes in the sun; climate controllers and conditioners are still technology of the future. He is narrated stories of Panchatantra at bedtime; Aesop’s Fables are unknown to him. He goes to an aided primary school with a plank of wood to sit upon and branches of trees to shade; Playschools and Kindergarten he has never heard of. He has two shirts and a pair of trousers to boast of; doesn't get to choose between Puma or Nike. He grows up on stories of Ramayana and Mahabharata; Alice in Wonderland or Peter Pan is more myth than reality to him. He has under his feet a pair of slippers which has seen many a turn of seasons. He studies under the street lamp; the comfort of a study-table or a table-lamp he cannot afford. Computers or iPods he has never seen; has an electronic watch though, gifted by a very distant uncle. His only gratification of sports comes in the form of a contraption of steel rod driving a wheel or a piece of wood striking a rotund object made out of socks; Playstations and video games are out of the question. He runs a kilometre and half to make a call; doesn't have the mobility of a cell-phone. He works very hard in the fields, growing cotton by the day and looks after cattle at night, but still has his father commit suicide under debts, while some fashion model at a show, not very far away, flaunts a saree made out of the same humble material and gets paid by the grand. He travels by the general compartment in rail; airplanes, he has seen only on television. His workplace is hazardous, his life literally hanging by a piece of rope as he paints the walls of an invincible sky-scraper. Six-pack abs, he does have, not from working out in the gymnasium, but the countless number of cement bags he has carried on his backs. As water drops make their way through the numerous openings of his ratty-tatty ‘mansion’, he cannot but enjoy the rain. He puts up life-size posters of movies at a multiplex but hardly knows the colour of the interior. He sips through a cup of tea from the chaiwaala, Barista or CCD could easily wipe out his week's earning. Kentucky Fried Chicken he has never tasted, he lives on pooris from the roadside dhaba. Pepsi or Gatorade, he has never tried; nimboo-paani just seems to be perfect. He takes a puff of beedi every now and then; a cigarette, he could very easily trade for a pack of beedis. He coughs profusely and gets to the hospital, only to be attended by a doctor a day later. He is admitted to the general ward and diagnosed with tuberculosis and advised to take medication, but cannot afford to buy himself the cure. As he lies in his grimy bed all alone with no one to care, he sees the last ray of light through the curtains. With no one to claim his body, he is sent to the mortuary, later only to be studied by medical students.
If you cannot still think of someone who suits the protagonist, just take a look around. He is the character who can fit into almost any face you see on road. He is your average Indian who finds it difficult living hand to mouth. India is not the urban upper class living in Mumbai or B’lore or Chennai or any other metropolis, but as Gandhiji had said decades ago and still holds true, lives in villages. So next time you go on a spending spree, drinking by the dollars and expending by the pounds, think about those who are a little unfortunate than you. If you have food in your refrigerator, clothes to wear, a roof over your head and a place to sleep, you are richer than 456 million Indians. If you can see the beauty around you, you are fortunate than 23 million Indians without eyes. If you are reading this, you are luckier than 451 million illiterate Indians. Perhaps, life is not as kind to everyone; perhaps no road leads to utopia. Think again!!!!!!!

When I look around
Miseries abound
Starving children sleeping on ground

Nations going to war
In domination spree
Freedom is lost, where is democracy

Parents left alone
Rejected by kids
Homes breaking into nuclear families

Can we make a change?
We gotta think again
Wipe their tears and share their pain.