Barefoot Soldiers

The horizon was showered with ash,
The sun was up but not awake,
The street, a rancid stench of wet garbage, thanks to the dew,
While the sea roared, complaining about something in particular.

Close to the railway junction, a big piece of land where
richer ones had a place in the open abandoned water pipes.
And somehow the poorer ones slept straight,
with sky as their roof.

Mani lay in his cylindrical home, curled like a foetus in a womb.
Shiva was on his way, crossing alleys, buildings, animals, drains and finally the tracks.
He was collecting everything he could.
He came to collect Mani.
He was up, which also meant he was ready.
So were the rest, Krishna, Raja and Mantu.

The railways had always been generous to them, supplying them with innumerable trash.
Needless to say, it came with a price, an almost homophone : thrash
The security man, the TT, the random temperamental guy, all found solace in the sound of correction.

The boys sneaked in through the tracks, trying to buy as much time as they could.
This meant playing a timed game where luck was their only mana
and they didn’t know their nemesis, until they did.

Running through compartments, focussed, scanning high and low for plastic bottles, papers, metal cans,
The adrenaline brightening up their eyes, making them leap, capture and run.

Though nobody really minded getting hurt,
they mostly fell back on Krishna for lookout.
He held the most experience.
Mantu and Raja were newcomers.

In the early evening, the boys handed over their loot to the big guy with the gigantic mansion of crap.

The gang roams about next to the sea,
Which seems to have been pacified by now, at least halfway through.
The heavy humid air carried a stench that seemed to be an aggregation of the smell that each day donated.
Shops on pull-carts, selling assorted fruits, nuts, juice,
Waiting for the introspection, fights, make-ups, break-ups to complete.

The other side of the sea had exquisite apartments with extraordinary homes.
It had significant folks visIting, discussing over expensive wines and watching the sea from their hight watch-towers.
The sea appeared to be over compensating for the following dirty land by being itself as much as it could.

The barefoot soldiers were free of their duty.
With the rifle of huge tattered bags on their back and mud caked feet,
they marched home,
In pride of having rescued their land of filth,
Just as the bravest of soldiers do.