A for Apple, B for Ball

Zola’s Odyssey 

Zola sprints to school, eager to learn
Oh! With so fervent a zeal her peepers burn
Someday she’ll be a woman of immense might
Scuttles to school 8 miles away, she’s the knight

Alas! she trips, breaks her sprint
Tattered books from her old sac spill
The fall may’ve cracked her foot, but for her strong upbringing
Zola trots ahead, shabby anklet jingling

She settles on broken bench
Nails pricking, aware of nasty stench
Gawks at the dripping ceiling, not a single fan
You’d wonder how the derelict building stands

Forget that fancy projector, no board’s in sight
It’s difficult to learn, but Zola tries
She and ten others wait for teacher to arrive
They hear a buzz, “Oh look, a beehive!”

A for apple, B for ball
Zola repeats in her head, “H for hall?”
An hour since, paper balls flying
A boy falls from the tree, “Is he dying?”

Two hours after, Zola’s throat’s sore
Yesterday was the same, so was day before
Teacher never comes to feed hungry souls
Dejected, they return to their dingy holes

Carrying her torn sac, no longer sprinting
Thirst for knowledge, unquenched— still ringing
Dreams hazy; she now hurries— got floors to clean
Mistress is angry if china doesn’t gleam

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Sadly, millions of children in India suffer Zola’s fate. The system’s apathy is appalling. Perhaps, the sprinting growth rate has blinded its vision. You tell me, how can India hope to rise without lifting its millions up? Good education is so distant a dream, even decent literacy’s not being imparted.

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