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There is clamor of democracy in the state, everyone is busy yelling but no one is ready to listen to the silence which just spoke. And when it spoke he became mute. He was my husband. He died of T.B: a curable disease. You must be wondering why? Because we don’t have money and hospitals that treat poor is still a distant dream in India of five star hospitals.
Family members are coming together to share the pie of power, but my family got into shambles in search of a piece of a bread. Power they will always have and savor, but there is no guarantee that the bread I will have and my family that is remaining will share.
This festival of democracy has many colors, and one color or a mixture of colors will win at the end of the day but I, the daughter of democracy, will be left with only one color to mourn the success of this democracy and that is white.
I am no clairvoyant but can see vividly that the drums of democracy are making a noise so loud that my future’s heart has failed and it has also fallen down (like my husband did) on the ground: motionless and lifeless!
P.S: This post is inspired by an article on website of BBC: http://www.bbc.co.uk/hindi/india/2012/02/120207_mushar_kushinagar_ns.shtml