From within the desolate stretches of the city,
From where
the foul stenches rose,
A jewel of a
kind arose.
They called
him a poor man’s son—
But was his
father alive?
Purposeful
indifference had turned him into steel—
A victim of
a heartless life.
He grew up
in the dingy lanes vis-a –vis the palace,
Where people
did not know how ‘pizza’ was pronounced;
A dream to
live, a dream to realize—
He had in
himself.
But he had
never seen roses in all his life,
Only thorns
and venom.
Who shall
call him a decent man’s son?
He didn’t
know what churches were for,
To whom
mosques belonged;
A small
portrait of a god he had—
The sole
receiver of his prayers.
Orphan—shall
we call him?
His roots
unknown, his stories untold—
He thrived
with some others,
Who knew the
pain unlike them.
Deprived of
a mother after birth,
Lost in the
crowds of the city,
He had to
make something for himself.
With every
morning sun that
Dawned upon
the sole ‘window-pane’,
His sights
ranged beyond the city limits—
How could he
dare to dream?
Where the
city was redolent of dirt,
Where the
citizens never thought of stepping their feet,
Amid that
same dirt blossomed a rose.
Rough,
cracked fingers—
Strained by
the test of steel
And hardened
by indifference;
His palms soiled
and feet lacking care—
He hadn’t
seen the parvenus
Queuing up
at Lindsay Street for a pair of shoes—
Smile wryly:
maybe bare feet were enough for him.
Years passed
by but life never improved
In those
dingy lanes;
Rotten and
foul—place or people?
I don’t
know: maybe only ‘they’ can say.
When dusk
had given way to dawn,
He perhaps
dreamt of entering the palace—
Beyond his
limits, where desire lead to death—
From dawn
until dusk he saw people entering and leaving;
He too
wanted to make his position upright.
For the
first time he entered the palace the next day;
Awed by the ‘beauty’
and amazed by ‘life’, he again dreamt.
With the
help of adulation, he entered the place;
With the
company of despondence, he left—defenestrated.
Who desired
a ragamuffin amidst the ‘suave’?
It rained
heavily that day,
As he
watched the drops pelting down hard on the tin roofs—
And the wasted
pond’s resonance.
He watched
the rain seeping through the roof,
Wetting his
belongings—
There was
waste water everywhere.
But again he
dreamt—
He dreamt of
immaculate swans swimming
In heights
of ecstasy;
He dreamt of
clear water
Sparkling
under the sun’s rays
And babbling
streams corroding the cliffs.
If ‘God’ had
been present, perhaps
We could
account his dream to ‘Him’—
Altogether
depriving him of thought.
But since
the wind here blows the other way,
The dusty
scenes seem yet more squalid,
It was not
the situation.
Whether it
rained brine I do not know.
Every
morning he used to watch the
‘Better-Dressed’,
‘Better-Mannered’ boys go to school in their cars—
But perhaps
his dreams soared even higher.
Under the scorching
heat everyday—
A pencil,
scale and an eraser—
He traipsed
to the local school.
He hadn’t
seen the glamorous heights
Of the city’s
top schools, where they forget their origin.
Some years
went by in the same dreary routine,
As life
hardly changed,
But
something happened the other day:
His only
uncle passed away of cancer, devoid of care—
It rained
brine that day, I know;
The place
was flooded again.
Now he had
no one who would rear him up—
Orphaned and
doomed now.
(‘Now’? I
don’t know)
His ‘education’
ended there—
He sought
after tea stands and stalls—
Hankering
after a living,
He finally learnt
to earn twenty a day.
A
middle-aged boy now—his dreams continued.
He still
dreamt—
He dreamt of
working in the hotel vis-à-vis the stand,
Imagined how
people might look there.
Berated by
the stall-owner,
Smacked by some—
He still
dreamt—
Of a
sumptuous lunch at the hotel,
Of great
dresses he save people wear.
He used to
return ‘home’ late in the night—
The pictures
of his late parents
And his
idol—everything inspired him.
He went to
the hotel next day—
Everyone
laughed and shooed him away—
He resisted
and hurled a stone at the manager:
A whack came
within a split second—
And
departure and endless sobbing.
He came back
to his hut
Only to see
its demolition—
‘Their’
Government wanted more skyscrapers to
Beautify the
city.
Homeless,
parentless, famished—
Tears were
no more visible.
His dreams
came to a stand-still—
His mind
never soared high again.
His ‘education’
was over:
He learnt ‘what
life is’.
He went to
the tea stall to collect fruitless (is it?)
Reminiscences
of his work—
When an
immediate ejaculation of rash abusive followed,
Questioning
his absence.
He stood silent—
And was
dispensed with.
It’s true
that he now had no one (or nothing?) to worship.
Night had
fallen in
And the poetic
stars had decked the night sky;
A boy from
the roof of South City looked up at them,
And asked
his father, “Dad, aren’t they beautiful!”
Sadly, the
boy never looked down.
But the
stars seemed as the innumerable miseries of his life,
Beauty and
Appreciation—had he ever heard of them?
Why, he wasn’t
taught those qualities ever.
He spent the
entire night on a footpath;
When he woke
the next morning,
His dreams
were fulfilled—
He was
dancing in the green fields
With his
mother who was singing
A song from
his childhood—
And he lived
happily ever after.
The day’s newspaper
reported
An
earthquake of considerable magnitude during the night—
Rattled
cars, shaken trucks—
Many were
buried under building rubble.
The quake
had shaken everything it seemed—
But I have
something to ask:
Did it shake
us?
