Every day over two decades now
the same man with the same pushcart
a heap of onions brings every forenoon,
be it summer, monsoon,
autumn, winter or spring…
whether anyone hears or not,
from door to door
he announces the arrival of fresh stuff.
Hunger has no season,
poverty is his companion,
misery is his shadow cast
even in the absence of the sun
The price goes up and down,
he does not know why it is so,
what is inflation he does not know;
the road in front of our home is widened,
seven banks have come up and many ATM counters,
but he has never stepped into any,
to idle in the bank he does not have extra money.
Roads are widened and brighter now,
his little home remains dark though,
new floors the schools have added,
yet his kids have never entered the school lift
nor their health has ever been checked by any child specialist
Time has left deep furrows on his forehead,
Eyes are sunken, thick hair has grown thin and grey,
the year for him is ever winter,
will there never be spring
and will the cuckoo of joy in his life never sing!
