Rat Race

By Ridhima Khajuria

Tick, tock, tick. It's clockwork.

Look, it's 4'o noon again, and

it begins, the mass movement,

often entirely overlooked.

Young ones swarm out of houses,

heavy bags and sweat, they work

the extra miles after school,

to make their place in the world.

Let it be six year-olds, or

Aspirants may it be.

Could be the teacher next door or, 

Fancy coaching may it be,

It's all for the same reason,

the goal, for marks and jobs

and plenty of dollar bills,

for what's life without that chase?

Oh, they'll make their folks proud

a doctor, engineer, govt. official!

slog hard, yes, they will be

productive role models!

Entrapped in the same game,

however, I wonder in silence, how 

this rat race allures so many when

reality hides, in plain sight.

The marks are never enough, 

the jobs rarely high-paying, and

tell me, how can all hope,

to be the one shot in the dark?

The ghost of what was promised 

lingers, I see it, in sunken faces

of those before me and, I doubt

future’s not so promising after all 

Can I be the superhero, poor

little me once dreamt of? Or

is it all propaganda? Is it really

possible to make a difference?

It won't work, it wouldn't!

a million beings can't be

the one in a million, like

what is this, utopia!?

So when i see a thousand faces

all like mine, lit up with hope,

the weight they carry, they all

show up at 4, day after day,

I think, barely a handful among us

will make it that high, and we

can surely try, try to reach that sky

But what of the others?

Don’t they have hopes, dreams,

expectations pinned down on them?

and all of a sudden, it appears,

the world grows a little colder.

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By Ridhima Khajuria