The Mud Road Vow Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

It has never been easy
to speak of that village road
ankle-deep in rain and rot,
a thick brown river charging down the middle,
pulling every shame outward with the sludge.

Villagers tiptoed the narrow ridges,
eyes nailed to their own footsteps,
determined to keep their sandals clean
and their souls cleaner.

Then, under a white-hot noon,
down the only street the village owned,
my mother and father were dragged
like empty grain sacks,
all fight clubbed out of them long before.

Their offence was simple:
they asked for the price
of the earth
the landlord had swallowed.

The fat policemen believed
the village would breathe easier
once my parents' names
were erased from it.

The whole village watched.
Not a single tongue moved.
Not a single fist unclenched.
They only swayed a little,
hunting for the driest patch
of guilt to stand on.

Barely five.
I saw my mother's sari
turn the colour of dried blood in the mud.
I saw my father's head
bounce against the ruts
each time the rope snapped tight.

That day a coal caught fire
behind my ribs—
small, unquenchable.
I carry it still.

I will never bow
to the hands that drag anyone
through public filth,
nor to the eyes that look away
to keep their own feet dry.

That is the vow I made
before I could write my name—
every morning I lace my shoes
and walk the wet center of the road.