Conscience Uncategorized


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 ocean
We do give
We’re not bad souls
To the church
To the orphanage 
To the Home
For the Aged
To the NGOs
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
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
Her daughter now
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
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
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 
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
To her masters
They comfort
They understand 
But they can’t
It’s not good
Five hundred a month
To the neighbour
A hundred
To the garbage man
To the toilet cleaner
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

By Jyothsna DSouza

I’m at home
With my children
With plenty of time
To read, teach, and muse

I believe if you have
The capacity
To do good
And others
They confirm
It is good
If it’s important
For many,
Not one
One must persist
To the end,
Till all one’s
Are exhausted

Man lives on hope

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