On A Call With Death
Hello. How are you?
Not well. At All.
Surviving.
Barely.
You know how it goes.
Hmm...What are your plans for today?
Not much. Work and work some more. More than the actual work, the
hardest part is to survive -- Just enough to somehow make it to the
next day -- Just enough so I can live.
Live enough to die again.
Die so I can live enough. It's a vicious cycle. It goes on.
I get resurrected. Like Jesus.
"Jesus died for your sins", they say.
Well, I die for the sins of the rich.
Each day.
Oh well. Looks like you have a lot on your plate right now.
I guess, I might see you tomorrow then.
The Boy Who Sold Balloons
Amidst the lights, noise in a bustling city
Known as New Delhi
With families out for their little outing,
All with their best clothes on,
I hear a distant noise shouting:
"Come and buy these colourful balloons!"
"Got them in many colours from blue to maroon!"
Says the boy out loud
Who must've been 13 at most
With bare feet and ragged clothes
Holding balloons in his hands
He walks miles and miles
Hoping for someone to buy
He awkwardly smiles
He puts on a smile until his jaw hurts
Walks until his feet could no more
Feeling dejected yet hopeful
Thinks he might score
So out comes a family from a fancy restaurant
As they head toward their expensive car
The child points to balloons
Wonders what they are
Demanding them
He grows excited
Parents signal, "Oi! Balloon boy!"
And he gets invited
Placing a few cents, into his hand
They trade for a balloon
Flying high in the air
Seemed it could go up to the moon
But it was bound by the string that was
In the hands of the rich
Similar to the plight of the balloon boy
With the difference being almost zilch
The Homeless Man
He was there
 |
| Photo Courtesy of Helen Hill |
Yet he was not
Looked
But ignored
As hundreds of shiny shoes
Walked passed him everyday
While he sat in the corner of this wall
On the ragged piece of cloth
Right in the middle of the bustling city
Where rarely anyone bothered to take pity
Or say hello
After all, his humanity is 'not' to be acknowledged
We should know!
We go about not acknowledging it every day
Have become so immune to others' suffering
And looking away
So there came a day
When gone was the man
With only his ragged cloth left behind
As a marker, perhaps, of our ragged souls
And ragged minds.
~Prerna Bakshi
