Plagiarism and convenient attribution of something in the name of a famous personality to give it credibility is deplorable. Here is a classic case that demonstrates this phenomenon.
Just three days after the death of Ram Jethmalani, this poem started appearing on Facebook and Twitter, with the following caption: “A lovely poem by Ram Jethmalani! who died at 95”.
“The poem is not written by him (Ram Jethmalani), it’s not his style. This is pure fakery.”
– Advocate Mahesh Jethmalani, son of late Ram Jethmalani
BOOM Fact Check revealed that this was an archived article by Siasat Daily from 2017, which carried the poem and attributed it to Delhi-based author Rashmi Trivedi. The poem was also shared by Trivedi herself on her Facebook account, on December 2, 2017.
BOOM reached out to Trivedi, who confirmed to us that she did indeed write the poem.
“Yes. This (poem) has been penned by me. This is not the first time this has happened . Many of my poems get circulated in WhatsApp with wrong credits or without any credits. It was frustrating earlier but now console myself with the fact that people like them that’s why they copy,” she told BOOM.
Bottom-line: Always give credit to the source. If it is used for a commercial purpose where the author has expressly stated Ⓒ, take the prior permission from the author before publishing the material.
– CLN Newsdesk
Sometimes in the dark of the night,
I visit my conscience
To see if it is still breathing,
For its dying a slow death
Every day.
When I pay for a meal in a fancy place.
An amount which is perhaps the monthly income
Of the guard who holds the door open.
And quickly I shrug away that thought,
It dies a little.
When I buy vegetables from the vendor,
And his son “chhotu” smilingly weighs the potatoes,
Chhotu, a small child, who should be studying at school.
I look the other way
It dies a little.
When I am decked up in a designer dress,
A dress that cost a bomb
And I see a woman at the crossing,
In tatters,trying unsuccessfully to save her dignity.
And I immediately roll up my window.
It dies a little.
When I buy expensive gifts for my children,
On return, I see half clad children,
With empty stomach and hungry eyes,
Selling toys at red light
I try to save my conscience by buying some, yet
It dies a little.
When my sick maid sends her daughter to work,
Making her bunk school
I know I should tell her to go back.
But I look at the loaded sink and dirty dishes,
And I tell myself that is just for a couple of days
It dies a little.
When I hear about a rape
or a murder of a child,
I feel sad, yet a little thankful that it’s not my child.
I can not look at myself in the mirror,
It dies a little.
When people fight over caste creed and religion.
I feel hurt and helpless
I tell myself that my country is going to the dogs,
I blame the corrupt politicians,
Absolving myself of all responsibilities
It dies a little.
When my city is choked.
Breathing is dangerous in the smog ridden metropolis,
I take my car to work daily ,
Not taking the metro,not trying car pool.
One car won’t make a difference, I think
It dies a little.
*So when in the dark of the night,
I visit my conscience And find it still breathing,
I am surprised.
For, with my own hands
Daily, bit by bit, I kill it, I bury it.
…….and we call it a living
– Rashmi Trivedi
Very well worded. Plagiarism is nothing short of intellectual theft. What does it take to give credit to the rightful source? Just a simple acknowledgement. A name, a reference, a line of respect. But Sadly, for some even that is too much.
Even in Kodagu we are witnessing a dangerous trend. So called Historians, researchers, scholars and self – styled cultural evangelists are parading as custodians of our precious culture. They thrive on borrowed words, twisted narratives and half-baked stories, feeding on the gullible unsuspecting readers and listeners. History cannot be re-written to suit egos. And truth cannot be stolen without consequence.
Rashmi Trivedi’s poem offers a moving reflection on the quiet death of conscience in the face of everyday injustice. Through simple yet powerful verses, she compels readers to confront their own complicity in a society marked by inequality and indifference. The refrain “It dies a little” lingers long after reading, urging self-examination.
It is unfortunate that this poem was widely misattributed to the late Ram Jethmalani. 𝗪𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝗺’𝘀 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗰𝘁, 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝗹𝘀𝗼 𝗵𝗶𝗴𝗵𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗺 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗯𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗴𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗴𝗲. 𝗧𝗿𝘂𝗲 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽. 𝗪𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗲𝗻𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗱𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗱𝘂𝗲 — 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗰𝘀, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗴𝗲𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆.