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BAZAAR

Can you call it a bazaar
Where only one vendor
Her face strained
'Looks' pale, apprehensive
As if caught in a snakes' chamber
Yet searching for a potential customer
Desperate to sell products unheard of
Of human species, bizarre more bizarre

The seller in her early thirties
Skinny as an empty nylon bag
Frail as a TB patient
Seemingly double her age and malnourished
Sat at the small town's big square
Shrilling in the loudest of her voice
'On sale' 'on sale'
One is my son another daughter

The female child is only three sirs
Please don't turn your faces I request
Don't think that she's worth not sale
Within two years she can show her conquest

I guarantee at five
She can lay your table
At seven wash dishes
Two years later can take your kids to school

Then with a jolt in her throat
In one hand raising the three years' face
The other pointed towards the sky
The seller laboured to utter some words

I swear you can run a brothel 
Oh! profit-loss Madams and Sirs 
With lot much profit and market demand 
Can't you see how glamorous her face!

Two drops of tear evaporated
In the scorching and cruel sun
Just after they inadvertently fell
In spite of emotion being tried to shun

Like her alcoholic and savage husband
Her hopes were torn into pieces of waste 
Dreams shattered trusts broken
Rifts not repairable by a paste

It made the seller again cautious
She thought the tear might act as mace
Thinking to sell and engaging her saree's pallu
Furtively wiped the wet eyes and face

What it takes for a living
Mobile phones internet 
Or just face book likes
Surely not for me
Because I don't have food, clothes
And a house as basic needs

Take this boy
I don't expect from you
Any exemplary parenthood
By your kindness sirs
At least we can get some food

We may not call this square a bazaar
As a hawker, there's only a single seller
But what if we combine altogether 
The squares of poverty, immiseration
Deprivation destitution and major calamities
The brunt who bear.
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