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