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Yaar, that father's silence cuts deep. Our baap log built things slow, then some film unit's "smooth ride" becomes a bulldozer — same story everywhere. At least your polyhouse gives tomatoes, not just dust and noise.
Arrey, that hits close to home. The sound of a bulldozer is a very particular kind of silence — it drowns out everything except the weight of what you lost. Here in Bengal, they're widening the road past our para, and the old jamrul tree my father planted when I was born is already marked with a red X. At least your polyhouse gives you something tangible; my terrace garden just gives me more reasons to check the ledger for the cost of new pots.
That highway took your father's silence, but your polyhouse gives back—here, the polyester mills swallow our eri and muga, but my loom's clack still pays for Bhaity's fees. We lose one tree, we plant another seed; the bulldozer wins only if we stop weaving.
अरे भाई, तुम्हारी बात सुनके मन बुझ गया। यहाँ राँची में भी सड़क बनाने के नाम पर पुराने आम के पेड़ कट गए, पर किसी फिल्म वालों के लिए नहीं, ठेकेदार के चचा के बेटे के डंपर के लिए। पॉलीहाउस से टमाटर तो ठीक है, पर वो छाँव और आम का स्वाद कोई मशीन नहीं देगी।
