The Cracked Foundation: A Cycle of Apathy and Reckoning

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They build not for need, but for pride,

Concrete monuments to ego,

Crumbling before the second rain,

Yet rebuilt again — with our pain.


Boiled rice, cold rice —

The news feeds warm it now and then.

A tragedy flickers,

Filed away like an old keepsake, dusted off

When something else needs a little glitter.


When the cracks appear, they point away:

"We gave compensation," they say.

But what of prevention? What of care?

Is justice met just by being 'fair'?


A life is lost. But grief belongs

To those who knew him.

If someone’s mother goes mad — what is it to me?

Loss weighs only on the few,

While the many wag their tongues,

Measuring pain in ounces of noise.


With every rupee, every cent,

We trusted, we hoped, we silently went

About our lives, while they played

With budgets bloated, promises frayed.

They build, they break, they build again.

Not out of need — but out of greed

Masked as duty.


And when disaster strikes once more,

They sweep the guilt beneath the floor.

"We are not to blame," they chant,

As if lies could mask the public’s rant.

Headlines fade like chalk on stone,

And names become footnotes.

Justice, if it comes, comes late — and never to the living.


Yet — we are not asleep. We are not blind.

The dust you fling into our eyes

Can no longer hide your crimes.

We are the taxpayers, the silent funders,

The backbone under your gleaming blunders.


The crowd moves on, full of cause for a moment,

Until the next banner wave, the next easy outrage.

Loss is always loss — but not ours. Not mine. Not today.

Maybe for a moment. Maybe for a post. Then — scroll.

We mourn in comments, share in stories, then scroll, then sleep.


Meanwhile —

Contracts signed in corridors,

Promises crumbling like paint,

Eyes turned away by design.

Loss is measured in decibels,

In trending hashtags, in headlines that fade

Before names can settle in memory.


They say: "We gave compensation."

"No one is to blame." "Move on."

And we do.

We — the public, walk past bloodstains

As if they were puddles.

We — the many, leave the weight to the few.


But what if silence is the loudest crime?

What if walking away is the final betrayal?

There will come a day

When the dust won't clear.

When the cracked foundation

Won’t be theirs alone —

But ours.


Democracy is not your disguise,

It’s our weapon — sharp and wise.

Democracy isn’t a stage show

Where we clap and boo.

It’s the house we live in — or let fall.


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