Thursday, 1 August 2013

The Rickshaw-Puller

By Ankit Singh

Fresh morning dew - dripping from the leaves
Piercing the thin eyelids - dawn's focus beams
Raise the alarm to wake up for the grind
My muscle is my money, to feed the clan behind

A checkup on the strength, a hunt for rust
Few pats on the cushion swept away the dust
For minutes I gazed at its rustic charm
My old eyes felt the first monsoon of a farm
Trembling, I gripped the handlebar with pride
My muscle is my money, the city is my stride

Maiden halt at the mansion that rose to the skies
Like the ones in dreams from open eyes
A little princess emerged chirping like a dove
Dangling locks harnessed with hair-band above
Little did I know of the contents of her gear
My muscle is my money, hunger my prime fear

On the jute cushion she cuddled herself up
Waved at her mother who sipped her tea cup
Fair as an angel as honest as a mirror
Gentle as a feather was her playful leer
She broke the ice to catch me unaware
My muscle is my money, I may have acted queer

Naively she remarked at my ripped pant
I could barely look at her neat scant
She gazed for long at my tattered shirt
My shirt grudged at her wrinkle-free skirt
I pedalled my envy through the morning breeze
My muscle is my money, despair needs to cease

With only pedals to her school to spare
My heart panted with passion none could dare
Eyes in the freckled face glimmered with cheer
The child-like joy in riding the load clear
A halt in the shade, to set up on another
My muscle is my money, I'm just a Rickshaw-Puller