The Storm


A beggar’s misery we really don’t see.
Giving a coin or a 50 rupee note, is just a reflex
For some people. We rarely
Give a moment to look at a specimen
That struggles daily with green dough,
The type that goes to his palm
In small numbers. Struggle is never easy
It is a monster that pushes from every corridor
Every angle, on every open wound,
Gripping your mind, knowing that survival is much more
Than lady luck. I stood outside the supermarket
And gave 50 rupees to a man with
A leg filled with wounds and scars,
As I wondered, how can I ever spend
800 rupees on a gin cocktail. I went home that day
And decided to be more caring, more spendthrift
In my money habits. Our struggles are way tougher than it looks.
We are poached by fate, stranded
By inhospitable gods, when our only grace is,
Looking at the dead center of the eye
Of a roaring cyclopean monster,
Threatening to uproot us.