Neither a village, nor a city,
Sold the land, yet no money.
No good people, no bad people,
Nothing as it was, nothing as it’s changed.
Neither a village, nor a city !
An acre went, and the measure came.
The panchayat went, and the corporation came.
The lake went dry, the drain came.
No line marks the problem, my mother!
Here, there’s neither a village nor a city!
Seems like the mind has changed,
Seems like, just a bit.
The body that once ate ragi balls, has turned into Gobi Manchurian!
Neither a village, nor a city!
Breakfast came, lunch went,
Rotten Kanglish* came, my mother!
The cow was forgotten,
Forgotten were the original seeds.
Neither a village nor a city!
Milk went, Nandini came,
Ragi went, Prestige** came,
Rice went, Shobha*** came, my mother!
Green turned to yellow belt, my mother!
No city, no village!
Green is gone, yellow has come.
To the lips of money, roots have grown.
This private life is not beautiful.
Afternoon naps are no longer peaceful, my mother!
No city, no village!
All around the town were fields.
Now all around the town are apartments.
The fortune of being born from Mother Earth—
Will that be found in apartments too?
Neither a village, nor a city!
Bindi, pot, plate, water from the well—
Now tankers come to every house.
House to house there are maids,
House to house there are brokers.
Tell me, mother, is there a village or a city?
Vegetables once went to the city,
Now they come from Bangalore.
Grass mats, bamboo went; sofas came.
Here, there’s neither a village nor a city!
Sachin Kumar Rathod
Sachinkumar Rathod is an independent researcher and consultant working at the intersection of caste, land, labor, and urban transformation in India. Trained in public policy, governance, and urban studies, his work focuses on understanding socio-spatial inequalities through long-term ethnographic fieldwork, policy engagement, and collaborative research practices.
