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 I buy expensive gifts for my children 

On return,  I see half clad children 

With empty stomach and hungry eyes 

Selling toys at red light 

I try to salve 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 is just for a couple of days 

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 metropolis

I take my car to work daily 

Not taking  the metro,not trying carpool 

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 kill it, I bury it.

Courtesy: Junaid Tahir  

Blogger, Editor, Web Dev Enthusiast 

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