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THE ROADSIDE STAND-ROBERT FROST

               The little house was out with a little…….withering faint.

               Someone from among the village folk had a shack beside a highway that ran to a city nearby.
               The man extended his shack to the front to open a make-shift counter to sell his farm items
               like berries or its squash. It was a small entrepreneurial venture to make some little money to
               meet his needs. Caravans passed along the highway, but few stopped to buy anything from
               him. In fact, no one evinced any interest in his items, even avoiding to cast a glance towards
               it. Even a miniscule fraction of the money the city dwellers were awash with eluded the shack-
               owner.  He  vainly  looked  at  the  passers-by,  with  eyes  seeking  attention.  His  rudimentary
               counter didn’t merit any traveler’s curiosity.

               The polished traffic ……………………. (this crossly) and go along

               No doubt, the traveller’s belonged to the well-to-do class. The glitz and glamour they are used
               to was singularly lacking in the way-side counter. Seldom did they look at it. If ever they did,
               it  was  more  to  express  disgust  at  the  poorly  painted  and  poorly  displayed  North-South
               direction board. Clearly, they remained aloof.

               The     humble     farmer’s    soliciting   eyes    had     little   impact    on    them.
               The farmer offered wild berries kept in antique-looking jars, the freshly extracted juice kept
               in not-so-enticing containers. The city folks passing past the humble counter looked joyfully
               at the rocks and mountains that stood in the backdrop, but felt it below their status to stop
               over to buy such fresh produce from the lowly grower’s farm. Their wealth had made them
               blind to such humble, but priceless offering coming straight from the fields.

               The hurt to the scenery ………………… said to be keeping from us

                The ramshackle sack stands as a blot against the beautiful backdrop of greenery and the
               distant  mountains.  For  the  bloated  travelers,  the  shack  is  a  spoiler  of  the  landscape,  a
               grotesque imposition. They avoid looking at the counter, unmindful of the fervent desire of
               the humble villager’s struggle to fight the hardships of life with a tiny portion of the cash from
               the  travelers’  over-flowing  wallets.  The  indifference  of  the  wealthy  city  folks  is  clearly
               disgusting. The political power is clearly tilted in favour of the city-dwellers.



               It is in the news that ……………………… night the ancient way


               A new relocation plan for these poor villagers is in the offing. In the pretence of giving them
               the comforts of urban life, these simple folks will be forcefully uprooted from their land and
               made to live inside the urban limits, beside the theatres, and malls. No one bothers to take
               their consent, nor to study how disoriented the village folks will feel in their new habitats. By
               sweat-talking the gullible rural folks, the land sharks will fleece them of their ancestral lands,
               and condemn them to live in the urban centers. Such trickery will never be called to account,
               and  the  villagers  will  painfully  struggle  to  adjust  to  the  new  ways  of  earning  a  living.
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