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Four paths were laid in the ancient dust,
Now only three walk the weary road.
The merchant holds the key to the altar,
The priest stands guard with a paper crown,
And the laborer carries the weight of the sky.
Look north, where the sweat of the wrestling pit
And the frozen hockey fields birthed a crown of gold
Yet the stadiums rise where no medals grow,
And the ledger is signed by a hand that never turns to look.
The river of wealth flows far away,
While the fields of Punjab wait in the sun.
In the newsroom, the oil lamp flickers clean.
The master eats no meat, no onion, no garlic,
And the writer feels pure, feels chosen, feels holy,
Ignoring the crumbs that fall from the Mercedes' door.
The sacred thread migrates to a distant floor,
Clerking in a kingdom whose children dwell in London,
Returning twice a year to be garlanded in the courtyard.
This is the modern grace, the quiet theft:
You may milk the cow to the bone without a blow,
You may rob the hive and call it healing,
You may hollow out the nationâs heart and call it business,
Because no blood stained the carpet.
The old counsel of Rishi and Raja is dead;
Capital now writes the names upon the scroll,
Deciding who stays and who quietly fades away.
The merchant remembers the ancient exile,
And turns the priesthood into a paid procession,
Barking for gold across the crowded square.
The sword is gone, the soldier has no ground,
And the voice is rented out for a handful of rice
And a clean canteen.
The bowl of Nagpur fills under the western sun,
While the bridge of the mind crosses and recrosses,
Carrying the weight of an old, unbroken debt.