The Prayer of an Angry Common Man

“Beware the fury of a patient man.”

John Dryden

Oh God, kindly hear me out.

Listen to me patiently, for I have no one else to talk to.
I do not want an answer for my prayer; all I need is someone to listen to me- to make me feel good about having been able to give vent to all this anger that is building up inside me, like a volcano about to erupt.

Long are the days I spend in the oppressing heat of the sun, paving roads, while people in AC cars stare at me through the glass windows, amused by the movements of my starved body muscles, the heaving of my miserable lungs which have been consumed by the thick tar smokes.

I am angry, God. I am angry that I work my heart out and when the roads are paved to perfection, my name does not even finds a mention; the credit of my labor goes to the politician. I am angry that I have to work so hard for others to enjoy their pretty lives, and that I do not get credit for my labor.

The temple’s pujari, mosque’s imam, and the church’s abbot; all tell me that Thee treat everyone similar, that everyone is equal to Thee, and that all men are Thy beloved children. Then why is it that I toil out here, struggling hard to feed my ailing mother, while that woman in the glassed vehicle feeds street dogs with the burger her kid wouldn’t eat?

I hear that my Government spends millions of rupees for the security of me and my family. And yet, when the terrorists chose to attack the nation, it was I who lost my family to his gunfire at Mumbai Sivaji Terminus. It was I who lost the laughter of my innocent kids.

I am angry, oh Almighty.

I am angry that the person responsible for the death of my family has not been punished still. I am angry that my government spends crores of rupees for the protection of the terrorist, build tunnels for his security, while my mother suffers for the want of medicines.

They tell me that I should be a proud Indian, for we have sent a mission to the moon. I do not feel proud, my Lord. All I feel is this anger that is welling up inside me, consuming me, at the thought that the millions spent in finding traces of water in the moon could have brought water to the dried up fields of my village. I am angry that they find pride in India’s unsuccessful lunar mission while my brethren lose lives for want of basic medical facilities.

I can’t feel proud, my Lord.

I can’t feel proud as long as my hungry brethren drink water from the roadside pipes to fill their stomachs; while the surplus food grains that my government claims to have lay rotting in warehouses.
I can’t feel proud of India’s growth as a ‘World Power’ as long as the majority of my brethren, in the slums and the roadside pavements, are unsure of their daily survival while men clad in suiting make merry at the stock exchanges.

Can I ask Thee something, oh Omniscient?
Why this inequality? Why this indifference to my plight?

I have been poor since generations before, and I will remain poor generations after.

You’ll find me in the slums, in coal mines, in quarries and crumbling fields.
You’ll find me working my heart out, doing things as I have been told to.
You’ll find my children, undernourished, running around bare-chested, with no hopes of education or a bright future.
You’ll find me weeping silently, unable to contain the sorrow within.
You look at me for a moment, turn your head away, and forget my tears in a flash. You forget my existence, for it concerns you not. It concerns you not whether I laugh or I cry, whether I starve or I die. It concerns you not whether my kids go to school or become another me.

I am angry, Oh God.

I am angry at You, I am angry at my Government; I am angry at the whole world.

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