When I was younger, many years ago
Could seldom finish my food, I would throw.
straight Into the dustbin
When Mum wasn't looking.
When Mum would find out,
she would be displeased and shout
"You're so lucky, you have food,
other Indian children have to chew on wood!"
Such a poignant picture she would paint,
That I would feed guilty and faint.
I felt responsible for the poor being poor,
I decided to shun this wastage forever.
Kissan was a farmer I never did know.
And he now is no more.
He had taken his own life,
He had slit his neck with a knife.
It had rained well that year,
And when rain was not needed, the sky was clear.
There was not an insect, no pest
Kissan had a wonderful harvest.
He thought he was going to be rich,
but life can be such a bitch.
Everyone grew lots of food -
He would have earned more in a flood!
No one wasted food, you see-
We were careful, you and me.
We did not buy more from the farm,
The lack of demand caused the farm alarm.
And when everyone was careful with food,
Purchase no one would.
Kissan could not repay is debt,
He decided to face the bullet.
How can such a noble deed,
make an innocent man to death bleed?