A Drop Of Water

By Poornima Choudhary

My son says,
You know, Ma, some people walk miles for water.

I said,
Yes, my son, I know that place.
I’ve seen it. I was once one of them,
Carrying a pot of water on my head.

For me, it was fun. I told my aunt,
Let me carry water too, I want to help you.
She’d give me a tiny pot,
So I could play and feel useful.

But my son sees it on YouTube.
For him, water isn’t a luxury.
He turns a tap, fills a glass, and that’s it.

In the village, they’d strain water with one cloth,
Then again, with another until not a speck remained.
In the city, they use Aquaguard
And rage if water comes late one day.

It’s their right, they say,
But they don’t see the rights
Of those who walk miles for just one drop.

City people are strange.
They look down on villagers,
But look up to those in glass towers,
To the white, the blonde, across oceans.

They envy them.
And to live just one day like the ones they admire,
They work day and night,
Chasing a horizon that keeps moving.

And when they reach it,
Yes, they get water and light every second,
But they forget to live.

So they question this life,
And envy the smile of the child
Who walks miles for water.

And those who have everything,
The ones city folk worship,
Don’t know what to do with their everything.

The water they drink tastes of nothing.
So they search for new water
On Mars, or some place they’ll never go.

But far away, that child still walks
For a drop.
And when he finds it,
He is alive one more day.

He doesn’t question,
Doesn’t dream or envy.
He just hopes
For a drop of water,
Today and tomorrow.