Maid In India

Cuckoo called

Honk of a bus

Dawn has arrived.

I opened the door

The cool breeze caressed my face.

Yet another new morning.

A storm was brewing, unawares

The maid didn’t turn up

Who would do the dishes

Who would do the sweeping and swabbing?

At the tea estate

The manager cursed

“These tribals

They just take off”

Who would pick my leaves?

Who would pick my coffee? cried the farmer

Who would tap my rubber? cried another

Olas, Ubers and Swiggies

Drivers and delivery boys

Startups need them.

Food apps, trendy

The waste aplenty.

The bursting city,

Air and water, a paucity

Tribal girl, now an IAS

Chauffeur’s son in IIMs

Forwards in the whatsapp

India is marching, to where?

There is no alternative to Namo

Says the humble yogi

Ragas, didis are only mayas.

Be a Chowkidhar, says he.

Chowkidhar is chor, says he.

Socialism, communism, an anachronism

What of the capitalism?

New age economists opines

There is no poverty

There is only market

At the bottom of the pyramid.

Change seems to be there

But yet nothing has changed.

Maid in India

Where has she to go?