The True Sweeper
For many long years,
filth has gathered—
in every corner of India.
The new Prime Minister, it seems,
has at last thought of cleaning it up.
And so, in every office,
a notice was issued:
“Come to work on your holiday!”
Hearing this, the employees stopped work,
and began to calculate instead—
if they must clean the office,
then who will be the “babu”?
If there’s no janitor, what next?
“Well,” they said, “let’s see then—
how the babus themselves clean up!”
Outside, contractors grumbled,
“Fine, we’ll die working,
but let’s see who pays!”
Meanwhile, industrialists took to the streets
with brooms in hand—
perhaps to save
the janitor’s wages that way.
In temples, the priests gathered
in deep debate:
“If the king himself sweeps,
what becomes of his caste?”
Then what—
will the sweepers come to pray in the sanctum?
Will the priests go down
to clean the drains?
Ah, enough!—I know these dramas well.
Is filth only the garbage
thrown out on the road?
In hotels by night,
who comes and who goes unseen?
In the club’s barrooms,
who settles the contractor’s accounts?
Beneath the mountain of black money,
how many helpless souls lie dying?
A handkerchief can block the stench,
but who can survive
the reek of corruption?
Is there anyone—
any true sweeper—
who can cleanse that filth?
Who can take the hands of the oppressed,
and lead them
to the gate of freedom?
