When my stretch of the Gahuna Gaudi is absolutely quiet, no kids, playing happily, yelling, screaming and shouting, every afternoon, I sit and wonder, where have they gone?
I miss their happy voices from my window pane.
Every morning, I sit by the window pane, and I see only the big kids are hurrying to school. The little stay home. I sit and wonder why is this? School holidays already?
The pangs of hunger of the street is quite evident on Gahuna Gaudi, my stretch of the road. It was always a struggle street, but never sad and solemn like this. Its eairy, its a haunting reverberation of fear, desperation and hopelessness.
Its sad, I drink my coffee every morning, but I swallow a gut full of guilt. I eat a spoonful of rice covered in guilt. My belly is full of guilt. I feel the pain, there are no happy kids on my stretch of the road, I miss their voices.
Why are the children hungry in my country, on my stretch of the road, the Gahuna Gaudi of old?
Source: Facebook.com
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