The Peddler’s Meal
Barefoot he hobbled, on the scorched tarmac floor.
Wincing in pain, shuffling from door to door.
Though bent over in pain, proud was his gait.
Not alms he sought, he peddled petty freight.
He knocked and waited, expectations in his eyes.
Pity he did not seek. For his goods, a just price!
Him I saw not. Nor the dignity of his chore.
Unfeeling, unseeing eyes - conditioned to ignore.
Too many on these streets, a society ill at ease;
Dehumanized and exploited, a cursed incurable disease.
He had mere moments, until the lights turned green.
Seeking hope, seeking succour. His vision sharp and keen.
“Buy his goods”. Fervently, she nudged.
Startled, I beckoned. And hither the old man trudged.
“Ear buds, Sir”, he implored. “None better than these.
And quite reasonable too, a mere twenty rupees!”
I dared not bargain, her stern visage I espied.
And paid him his dues, for the needless goods he plied.
My frowns persisted, would this purchase I repent?
Wasted money, or worse, not worth a red cent?
He paused for a moment, his relief fighting to conceal.
And said, “This first sale will provide for my meal”!
She judged him not. Only she saw his pride.
One illumined heart, where compassion doth reside.
Chinmoy Bhattacharjee
14th July, 2018.
Gurugram, Haryana.
This poem is inspired by real life events that occurred in Gurugram on the 8th of July 2018. The heat was intolerable. And we had waited till late in the evening to pay a visit to the Sai Baba temple in Sector 52. It was quite late on our way back. And on one such traffic light, this event happened.
There are so many Indians living on the streets. Many of them peddle wares, most of them beg for their livelihood. Some of them have no other avenues left. Many others are in the vicious clutches of an organized begging industry. For most of those (by a mere quirk of fate) on the other side, this is a menace. For many, nothing can be done. Routine and sheer numbers have even made an injustice, as monstrous as this, routine. In our air conditioned cars, we simply see through them – devoid of compassion, dried of even the last traces of humanity.
And in the midst of this, one person, my wife, could see a human being. One person could discern a lonely old man, fighting for a livelihood with dignity with whatever was available to him. One person could see the difference between begging for pity and stoically working with dignity. To this person is this humble attempt dedicated. May God grant me the sight to never again look through a human being.
