RICKSHAW

eyes sleepy, drooping from day long labour,
i pull the gear, to pick up the infected.
my next stop--some moping mortal,
that had enough of blood and sweat he spent,
living in a space they often called life.

i pulled over my rickshaw at the corner of a street,
and there stood a man, his hefty fingers--
wrapped around the tiny hands of his daughter,
as she held a piece of candy--she placed herself,
at the centre of the cart,
tugged in the arms of her elder.
for little did i know,
she would be in the daily next dawn,
frantic parents, floating posters.

i doubt no intentions,
for i am but a medium,
for a mother looking for her infant,
a father hunting jobs to feed tiny mouths,
for i am but a medium,
i doubt no intentions.

as i watch the world revolve,
in its own selfish agenda,
i pulled over, yet again,
for i had tiny mouths to feed too.

this time, a man that belonged not to this land,
neatly dressed in black,
faded hair, combed to the nape,
two cases, and a camera.
a camera, i suppose,
to capture the “beauty” that never existed,
in the gullies I drove him to.
there is no love here, old man!
you stay here not, all you see is,
what you see in a day.
old women carrying pots full of water,
some worthy mortals, begging by the streets,
and mind you!
you are going to find beauty in this.

for you are yet to know about--
the old women that lost their backs,
to 'matkas’ dribbling with water.
you are yet to see,
poor infants too hungry to move,
carried in the bosom of a greedy old woman,
seeking nothing but pity and some 'rupaiyas’,
for an innocent baby she picked up on the way.

you are yet to see,
the ugly to all those beautiful faces.
for I see them everyday.
as i pull my rickshaw,
i see more stories than people.
and as my cart contains infinite stories,
of tragic families and broken hearts,
i ride through, for i am but a medium
i doubt no intentions,
no intentions at all.