It makes us cry in the running metro train when we get a text from our offices that the salary couldn’t be credited due to some clerical error, when we got only 4000 rupees to manage entire month. We begin skipping lunch to save every possible penny to sum up the monthly rent of a shared flat. And when we lose our mobile while reaching home via bus to spend less on traveling; the little mode of communication breaks. We try hard to convince our room partners and friends that everything will be OK very soon and ask them to lent us some money to save ourselves from the insult of the flat owner. We do all this to survive our little dreams; little utopian dreams.
These big mega cities are like flames, which sustain on the innocent lives of poor people, who reluctantly hover around these cities and become the burning threads of these flames. Such sparkling cities hold heroic stories of success of small-town super heroes, who travels to these cities in their youth and make a successful living with hard work and honesty. But these exemplary stories don’t include the firsthand accounts. We never got the chance to meet with such super heroes. And, when we did, we don’t find them the people of villages. They seem unfamiliar to us. They don’t even speak our language and prefer forgetting their past with village. Still, such stories flow from power centers to lower middle class, which makes us believe in doing hard work to make a nice living in a span of 10, 20 and 100 years of time. So, they wish to add our bit of share in making such big dreams true. Ironically, we innocent people bequeath little dreams to upcoming generations and so it goes on. In the due process, we make money but forget the cause of this prolonged journey.
Hope, at someday, our way can again turn to our home towns, where we can eat with our loved ones, breathe easily and walk on the known streets of our villages.
Hues of A Soul 