Pimpri is a wounded infertile land, fractured and desolate at her perimeter, like a wounded soldier impotent from battle to be healed by sacrifice to Durga. Decades on, the uncertain desolation remains – gods unappeased;  What will heal this polluted land its dusty plastic trash scattered like partitioned  morality of  saffron green shadow that attacks its fears caste subtle by the sinking crescent moon.

From societies and colonies crisp clean and middle class, Bais carry the scraps to fractured  fields, fields for another future eye sore, who push further away someone else problem: and the plastic scavenged by recyclers. The going rate?A few rupie a kilogram.

Occasionally the open field is hired from Hindustani Pharmaceuticals: By Sri Sri once, another time a fun fair with modular Taj Mahal appeared.  The field was given a little clean.

Pimpri’s horizon is punctuated by unkempt multi-story homes – of lives punctuated by festivals and insufficient infrastructure or water and too much traffic Ever present billboards praise those who supplied them – reminded him of how Rome, satisfied the masses with bread and circuses. Still, it was flat, Only a distant shadow of a mount hinted of the nearby Sahyādri’s  from the Deccan plateau.

India confronts you. There is no escape from her smile that forces you to act yet proclaims it constitution of tolerance and brotherhood.

Unless the waste land is healed, the city will die.

What will heal India of the uncertain desolation? A generation partitioned to morality of its generation fractured.