Tradition Cries

I have been to the hills, 

Hills my grandfather ventured, 

Now there are roads and fills. 

The tragopan, homeless rendered. 

I have been to the rivers, 

Rivers my grandmother played, 

Now only perennial shivers. 

The masheer in drought, flayed. 

I have been to the fields, 

Fields my mother toiled. 

Now steel walls and metal shields. 

Every mole and vole soiled.

I have been to the jungles, 

Jungles where my father hunted, 

Now the floor bed is in shambles. 

The tiger’s den left distorted. 

Now I sit with my brother, 

In front of seductive screens, 

Now from nature only further. 

Will I hear when the tradition screams?