The sky was amber, the sun to set
He walked in search of the regulars,
Exhausted, his temple covered in sweat
the street, kids role-playing ‘wrestlers’
Faces shone as they recognize
This humble man, from afar
With a package, beyond their fantasize
Kid shouts “here’s man with a scar!”
He bows to the old couples seated on the footpath
Lifts up the kid, embracing his knees
Who’s taken away for her routine bath
Before the feast would cease.
“It’s gruel, and gravy and paapad! “
The tiny boy shrieks.
All hands up in the air,
Like awaiting delicious treats.
Devouring the dainty but dear feast
Like it’s their last given morsel
Tame is even the roadside beast,
With gravy all down his torso.
He stood still perceiving the scenes
Fulfilment, from the filling guts
The eagerness, and how the bowls it cleans
The old couples retrieving to their huts.
He walks away like always
As happy as he could be
Feeding their own share to the strays
They pounce, face lit up with glee.
A leaky, creaky dump,
His very own humble abode
Flumps on the hay mat in the corner
That he himself sewed.
Scrapes the bowl, impatient.
Longing for some food
Ran out of his ration
To enlighten else’s mood
Life’s unfair he knows
For a minute he doesn’t regret
To witness their smiles he goes
Shares all food without a fret.
Recalls the smiles of the homeless,
Their blesses in murmurs, even tears
He thanks almighty for the roof above
Rests his eyes, conceives about the world, how
Some stomachs remain empty
Some full to the brim
Some full with sufficient
Some merely happy.
Copyright © Gayathri Menon | Year Posted 2020
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