What is the worth of your life?

Because, I can measure it, so less is its value, that I can trample it, but I must not, for your stench will continue to linger, your dirt will continue to blemish the floor, I have put in place with care.

You are worth nothing in this country of riches and prosperity, only a reminder of inequality, which I choose to ignore, for it is a ruse, to prevent progress, to stop the flourishing cities, from spreading their wings

And so, I ask myself when I look at the chapattis and a suitcase, strewn on a railway track in Aurangabad, as your dead bodies, send shivers down the spine of your family, but fail to rouse me, what was the worth of your life? For you were nothing but poor migrants, inconsequential to my life, my country

16 of you died, a million more await doles from the charitable, it doesn’t make any difference, for the country depends on the strong, not the weak, on the rich, not the destitute, on the minority, not the majority, doesn’t it?

Your life can never equal mine, this wall, this gap, this chasm, is here to stay.

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