By RK Lakhi Kant
A different playfield on the bridge.
A poor boy running playfully on the
iron floor of the bridge conveys
much more than we can understand.
Boyish fun does not depend on
anything else, sometimes not even
on the bare survival he is living for
on a pan stained over-bridge.
I saw an old mother waiting;
for what I am not sure, but
I think she was begging.
Begone begging, begone! Give the
old mother a better occupation.
The woman I saw sitting on the
lowest step of the staircase on the
entrance gate to the metro rail, when
I was setting out for selling some
books a few stations down
the way, was still in the same
place and the same trouble
when I reached the place a second
time over after finishing my work.
I am not sure how much aware she
was of her condition in the
cold winter day. The sun
which was out in the afternoon
when I left was set and the
street lamp nearby was lit
behind the tree there.
Maybe she mistook the lamp
for the sun; but soon the
realization would come that the
cold night is approaching and
she is without any means to
manoeuvre through the chill.
There`s no end in sight to
this suffering and as I
reach the marketplace I see
a boy, barely dressed for the cold,
leaving the garbage site after
rummaging through the dump
to see if he could find something
of any value for recycling.
The dogs somehow find these
people to growl at dangerously
and bark chasing them away.
I am not sure why the dog
does this because people
without a home deserve to be
given protection, especially
young kids. Dogs are usually
very friendly with young boys
but they don`t like people,
especially kids, to dress up
in filthy clothes and be vagabonds.
When did the boy have a bath and
change of clothes the last time,
I wonder.
O ruthless, ruthless this life.
Cooked food and a shelter and
warm clothing for the night.
An easy work made difficult
a thousand times over by the
agents of vice who sell away
and profit from the warm beddings
at the few night shelters for the
poor in the city.
Let`s not break the hearts
of the four-five year old boys
and girls who are just beginning
to find out the truth about a
dreary life, in the cold wintry
nights on the pavements.
Give relief, give relief to my
poor countrymen.
Let not even the slightest
feelings for the candidates
eligible for kindness
go by abegging without any
response. Give them food and
shelter so that they can live
properly, than an inhuman
death, left with no choice,
give them the relief.