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For The Shame Of…. Guest Post by Elsa Thomas

February 18, 2015

For The Shame Of…..
by Elsa Thomas



Every single day, many such faces haunted me. They followed me almost everywhere. They kept searching for me while I tried searching for a hiding place to seek solace, to hide myself from their plight. They were everywhere. They infused their plight into me. Poverty succeeded at the hide and seeks. I felt some kind of a guilt take over me. I could not behave like what the so called protocol expected me to behave as if this was not my business. How could they do so? How could they just turn away from this reality that spread its wrath everywhere, the veracity of which spread into my life like it were some kind of a fungi? Every single encounter with the victims of this monstrous façade provoked the shame in me. The shame of being alive, for the shame of being a citizen of this ruthless world which satiated itself with all sorts of materialistic pleasures but could not do anything to wipe the tears of despair in his brothers eyes; for the shame of being a citizen of this world where the rich mocked at the poor for their condition, the world where the appalled has no place to seek serenity but is scoffed at. Loss of identity which is the ultimate death of the soul was what I witnessed every day when the poor kept knocking at doors for help, maybe it was to save the life of a dear one who was waiting for the money at the gate of the hospital, to be able to provide for those little mouths that have not tasted a morsel for days together or a try to stop a family from committing the ultimate biblical crime. Even then, why would the classy ones bother? They did have their latest toy delivered at their doorstep this evening, the keys of which would be an article that would add to the pride of their eighteen year old! Then, probably this eighteen year old boy or girl would probably take the pleasure of speed and land up running over another victimized soul, in most cases the sole bread winner. There will be a case registered for namesake, a story for the local newspaper agency and within a week, the temperatures fall. That is it; end of the story! After all these procedural acts, does anyone bother to even spare a minute to think about the family of the dead? How are they? What is their condition now? Is there any food in their home? Does the dead man’s child attend school? No, why do we have to? Poverty is the poor man’s business, a topic for the elite to discuss at social awareness, forgotten ones they reach the venue of dinner.

I wonder was not one tenth of that amount needed to have saved the lives of ten such people! Has not that portion of wealth that could improve the lives of such discarded souls lost its purpose? From the workplace to the roads that led me there, from the lady who worked for us to the beggars on the street, every single soul cried out for something that remained treasured in the hands of those who only thought of hoarding it. The newspapers greeted me with many such stories every morning. I wonder why people bother to wish each other a good morning when there is nothing good happening here! The other day I witnessed a horrible sight at the traffic signal. There was this little child who sat crying in between the lifeless body of his parents. As the bus neared the spot I could perceive that the parents of the child and the child were dressed in neat clothes. I presume they belonged to a pretty decent family. The sight confirmed suicide. I could not help but think of the zenith factor that may have compelled them to have done something so merciless to themselves and to their child whose future now is more or less decided upon. The orphanage, the usual poverty and blah! Blah! Yes, it is the truth. What was going to happen with him was now a disguised procedure, an obscure reality. His cries echoed in my ears days after I witnessed it. What could have been the reason? Was it debt? Was it poverty that followed them like some kind of a scent? Every single reason was related to the economical aspect.

Money, power, influence, I suppose they are now more important than air, water and food for the society. The more of each that we possess, the more accepted we are. The pride that takes over our being was more than the humility the situation expected to exude. We call ourselves the erudite class but what sense does it all make when we cannot do anything for our fellow beings. We have lost the very feel that made us humans as we do not see the plight of our blood relations who may not have crossed the standards of wealth that you have far crossed. As we walk along that path which we believe will provide us with the penultimate happiness, turn around watch those whom you have left behind in this race. I am sure that you will find a near relative bruised and hurt but you will not stop, walk back and nurse their wounds. Instead you will walk further, happy and content for having one less of a competitor in this rat race of yours.

We boast of our possessions, our education, packages that adorn us. Of what use is education if you have run out of emotions? Of what use is your possession when you cannot take it along with you to a destination never seen? Zero! Your effort is a total waste in that case. If you cannot help a fellow human raise from the mire, help them in the real sense, you are absolutely nothing. I do not ask of you to spend loads to do little help. Take a baby step. Help somebody near you, your domestic help; the old beggar down your lane, bring them out of this dirt. Let poverty not deprive them of their happiness. If not, then today, I declare that I am ashamed of being a citizen of this world. I do not write this to vent my emotions; I write this for the shame of being alive here, in this trash.

Copyright  ©2015 Elsa Thomas

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One Comment
  1. Reblogged this on bychanceofserendipity and commented:
    My little effort towards the poverty campaign by Fiza Pathan.

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