Red

The slave reached down quickly to hold the plough, lest it fell onto the soil again,
The sharp edge of wood cut through his wrist, as he stifled a cry of pain,
The sun was hot, it was summer time there, and the plough was a heavy log of wood,
Yet hard though it was, he could not drop it down; an order he had long understood.

At one end of the field his master stood, his hands loose on his hips,
He was all in white from his head to toe, with a little smile across his lips,
It amused him always, as it did so now, seeing his slave not letting him know,
Pain or laughter it was all the same, a weakness, one could not show.

He could hear his father sing when he was a little boy, a song he seemed to love,
"The poor are meant to serve us folks, it's why they are sent from above,
They are lazy, stupid and useless, and note, will never hang their heads in shame,
Pain or laughter, it is all the same, a privilege, that does not become of them."

Thinking of that song he wasn't smiling anymore, he could see his father was not right,
He could see his slave Ramesh still in pains, though he held on with all his might,
He had been Ramesh's friend years back; stupid? He was far from that,
He worked hard with his books, was good with his brains, leaving the whole class a long way back.

Had it not been for the poor father he had, he could have gone a long way,
Might have gone to the cities and prospered, might have invited him over lunch someday,
Could even have made a name for himself, that boy, if only there was someone to pay,
He was eager to do that himself, his rich friend Nikhil, but his father came in their way.

"Stop shaming me my good son", he said, "and stop spoiling your useless friend,
Stop dreaming things they themselves never dream of, that money you shall not lend,
Let him be what he was born to be, our grass will suit his feet quite well,
Their service to us will do them good, might redeem their souls from hell".

"And please", he stopped short, "stop calling him by his name,
One who serves is as good as another, they are really all the same,
Have you seen how they reproduce at a rat-like pace, making villages where there was none before?
Why? If those rats started naming their kids, one couldn't separate them from us anymore.

He couldn't laugh as his dad had done, for he saw that his father for once was right,
There was really very little to separate him from Ramesh, except for the latter's despair and plight,
If anything there was plenty to separate Ramesh from him, there were plenty in him he could tell,
He was brighter and smarter, stronger and eager, facts they both knew very well.

He found it hard to see who could be more useless, himself or his poor slave,
Much of the village was owned by his father, the little he had was what he gave,
Not that his father was more useful either, he got those from the men who had come before,
He drank, slept, ate and talked; is that being useful more?

He wanted to talk to Ramesh that evening, it was years since they talked,
He sneaked from his house as soon as could, across the mud and earth he walked,
The villagers talked, they always did, "with whom is master angry tonight?"
But he walked on, through the mud and soil, knew that his way was right.

He called out "Ramesh" as he neared his house, could make it covered on top with hay,
He sat in front of him with his head held down, hardly knowing what should he say,
He felt his hand on his shoulder, and looked up, his eyes looked into his,
Master and slave, living worlds apart, and yet it had come to this.