Agony of Indian Dustbin

Roses are ashen,

Violets are gray.

I like everything rotten,

Just feed me properly - I pray.

People who bring me home treat me with care.

A special corner to stay and a shiny polythene to wear.

They feed me multiple times a day but give me bath once in a while.

They empty me everyday with a squeezed nose but never with a smile.

Still, I try to stay happy in my humble abode,

Far far away from the maddening lot outside.

People taunt me, tease me, avoid me there,

Always throwing around me or on roadside.

Fellas are good inside the home, you see,

They know what to keep and what to throw.

Stuffing the litter inside me day and night,

Stacking plastics and newspapers neatly in a row.

It’s a mystery how same people forget the rules, the moment they step outside.

World becomes a large dustbin and they litter everywhere with pride.

Roses are thrown,

Violets along with it.

Not inside me of course,

Just around the corner where I sit.

I feel neglected, 'Am I not important to care?'

They forget I am the one who hides all their filthy affairs.

I become a mute spectator or a dartboard of a special form,

They aim - some hit, many misses, simply leaving behind what is thrown.

Few come near - mostly four legged creatures and a truck of some sorts.

For stray animals, I serve as a large food court.

I feel dejected but many said they share my agony and sympathize.

Their stories shook me and I was surprised.

When people abandon me and turn a blind eye.

They find senseless ways to gratify.

Some go and paint the town red in a unique way.

Spitting in corners, walls, streets, stairs pretending as a jet spray.

It brings disgust not only to other human beings but even to inanimate us.

This, however, is not the only thing for which others are creating a fuss.

Roadside is equally heartbroken, maybe a bit more than me.

Seems everyone walking and driving on it, is on a litter spree.

Men add more mess when they turn their face to the wall.

Like no better place is available to answer the nature's call.

Lately, I found all these people are very very sick and they all need a hug.

They are infected with - Great Indian Litterbug.

They say - roses are red,

Violets are blue.

Then why don't people understand?

What they should do.

Drive on roads and walk on ledge.

Never ever spit where ever you like and color it red.

A toilet is where you pee, 'I' am where you put waste.

Neither aim, nor throw when you are in a haste.

Kill that 'Great Indian Litterbug' growing inside of you.

Do what is right and what you should do.

I am always there - in malls, in parks, even on roadside.

If you can feed me in your home, you should do the same even outside.

* This poem is featured on Times of India 'The Great Indian Litterbug' Gallery.
**This poem is written for 'The Great Indian Litterbug' campaign sponsored by greatindian.timesofindia.com