Death of conscience

Lovely poem by Ram Jethmalani, who died at 95-
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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 save 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 car pool. 
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.