It was one of those days when I seldom go to buy vegetables, as I reached there and walked straight, Straight to that grandma selling vegetables, who was fighting for the justice of rupees eight.
She was about to cry, asking for her own money, It was that so called literate customer who made her bow down on her knee. She didn't want to but had to fight for her every penny.
Standing there, I started calculating the value of those eight rupees she was fighting for, I came up with the results,
Fluctuations in climate, Monsoon playing game of fate, Sometimes comes early, sometimes late.
Fertilizer prices reached the sky Who would dare to buy them with prices so high? Why do they have to borrow money every year ? Why ? If asked for the favour of government, it doesn't bother to reply.
Big traders eat money in a middle, like a mid day meal Promising fair share of prices, their promises seem so feign. So, being independent farmer in this pathetic system of traders seems a good deal.
This western culture brought vegetable malls in trend, and thus there are millions of small farmers who feel marginalised, by people, by us.
And suddenly, I heard a voice coming straight to me, "Kya chahiye beta? " I embraced her pain, Gave her whatever money she demanded for the vegetables I bought from her, thinking, This isn't a right place to bargain.