American Bun
by vivekanand Jha
Call it a filthy fashion
Or intense passion
Or a blind imitation
Or a childhood infatuation:
People plough, water
And sow the seeds of confidence
Into their motherland
And to reap the crop of uncertainty
Visit the alien land.
Graying and groaning parents
Just do injustice with their hey days
For mere fictitious social prestige
Only to say, my son is earning
In dollar, pound and euro
In America, England and Europe.
Such prestige is as transient as
Yellow journalism and bubble reputation
Parents remain no more parents
Son remains no more sons;
Passionately after the American bun.
Parents reduced to ash
News came as a flash
The old couple kicked the bucket
Their only son didn’t turn up
To pay them rite and ritual.
Now in neighbor and locality
Topic is hot, condemnation is onslaught
I heard my uncle, in the vicinity, say:
What for son, what for currency,
What for sky-scraper apartment,
Are parents produced the sons,
Sent them to learn and earn in abroad,
to see such heinous days and moments.
If it’s so,
I would rather be happy and content
Even if my son has to remain idle and illiterate
Even if we have to face flood or drought
Even if we have to survive under the open sky
Or live under the small shed
At least we would be together
In all hurricanes and calms.
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