The Venerable

At this trembling staggering age, Dear deprived mother of, I don't know whom, Struggling to survive, And might be survival of, Someone, older than you… Vending toys, ball-pens, Sun-screens and all and sundry, Carrying all on your Worn out shoulders and hands, Waiting restlessly aside traffic signals… Midst, men, women, and children, Much younger in age than you, who - Straight bounding in, as signal dies, And howl aloud promoting their stuffs - And you, unhurriedly, wordlessly, placidly, Struggling, striving, trying your best, To vend, as a minimum, of rupees ten And repeating the same whole day… No food, no drink, more than starving, Ultimately - Returning to your homeless home, At such pitch dark of the night, Collecting some or nothing, And enduring with such life, Almost endlessly, as there’s no other way, As though till your very life ends... I am proud of you, dear mother, This is not the reason, yet, why I buy, From you, even things I do not need... I love you, because, Poverty feels ashamed, Before your tireless toil, Weakness blindly prostrates, Witnessing your industriousness, This is, hence, you are, for me, Much adorable and venerable, Than thousands of deities, That depends on offerings of, The poorest of poor such as you... 12 January 2022