The Puddle
A month or two, or three ago,
An old friend, I did see.
We walked the streets, lazily slow,
Of old times, chatted we.
We chatted free, as friends do chat,
When many a month has passed.
To catch up on the good times that,
Old memories had amassed.
The path we strolled, inward turned,
Towards the market place.
Left behind, the tar roads burnt,
Revealed a different face.
People rushing hither and tither,
Hurrying to and fro,
Buses and cars and noisy scooters,
Desperately crowding to go.
On either side stood shoddy shops,
A stench entombed them all.
Bullock carts, by stinking drops,
Beside the tiny stalls.
And yet we walked, unattached,
Willing and able to bare,
Who cares if the roofs are thatched,
The others are any case rare.
Dodging, missing, through the street,
Oblivious to all around,
We marched, uncaring, on our feet,
On the dirty filthy ground.
We stopped to let a scooter pass,
My gaze did shift aside,
There by the road was a huddled mass,
Naked, unable to hide.
An ancient man, wrinkled and bent,
Crouched by a liquor stall.
Kneeling before a broken dent,
A puddle of water, too small.
His haggard face, with sunken eyes,
Of pain and suffering long,
Bore a look, beneath which lies,
The course of a life, so wrong.
In his hand, a beaten mug,
Perhaps from a garbage heap,
Like a precious gem, with a desperate hug,
He held with a reverence deep.
The slimy puddle of water and filth,
Browned by the dirt within,
There, settled below, the heavy silt,
And clear water, a layer thin.
Carefully, slowly, bending low,
The old man, with mug in hand,
Dipped it in, desperately slow,
Without disturbing the sand.
Suddenly! A motor sound,
Into the puddle, a wheel,
Splashing away, the water around,
The old man jumped with a squeal.
For seconds few, he quivered and shook,
And stared at the puddle, no more,
His eyes lost, in a wildness look,
Of sorrow and fear, they bore.
Then it was over, the car was gone,
A hole in the road remained.
A single tear, like a dew drop, dawn,
Hung from an eye lash, pained.
Then gripping his mug, he huddled again,
Awaiting that puddle to fill.
Clutching his knees, in a hope insane,
Awaiting that moment, until.
Unni Nambiar (Sometime between 1986–1990)
