My Conscience Is Dying A Slow Death

 My Conscience Is Dying A Slow Death

By Javaid Jabbar. 

Sometimes in the darkest hour of the night, I call on my conscience to see if it is still breathing. It's dying a slow and gradual death

every single day.

When I pay for a meal in a fancy restaurant

an amount which is perhaps the monthly income of the guard who holds the door open, I quickly shrug away that thought. My conscience dies a little. 

When I buy vegetables from the vendor and his son "Chhotu" (a small child who should be studying at school) 

smilingly weighs the potatoes, I look the other way. My conscience dies a little.

When I'm all decked up in a designer suit (a suit that costs a bomb) 

and I see a woman at the crossing in torn clothes, trying unsuccessfully to save her dignity, I immediately roll up my window. My conscience dies a little. 

When I buy expensive gifts for my children and returning home I see half-clad naked children with empty stomachs and hungry eyes selling toys at the red traffic signal, I try to save my conscience by buying some. Yet, my conscience dies a little more. 

When my sick maid who can't come to work sends her daughter to work by making her miss school, I know I should tell the little girl to go to school, but then I look at the loaded sink full of dirty dishes and I tell myself that is just for a couple of days. My conscience dies a little more. 

When I hear about a rape or a murder of a child, I feel sad, yet a little thankful that it's not my child. I cannot look at myself in the mirror. My conscience dies a little more. 

When people fight over caste, creed, and religion and I feel hurt and helpless, I tell myself that my country is going to the dogs, and I conveniently blame the corrupt politicians, absolving myself of all responsibilities. My conscience dies a little more. 

When my city is choked and breathing is dangerous in the smog-ridden metropolis I take my car to work daily, not taking public transport, or carpooling. One less car won't make a difference, I tell myself. My conscience dies a little more. 

So when in the darkest hour of the night I visit my conscience and find that it is still breathing I am surprised because bit by bit, day by day, I try to kill it and bury it with my very own hands.