The little leftovers, he nimbled upon
Tiresome was his days, half a roti he harped on…
Long are his searches, but he gathers no moss
Nukkars and gullies he moves in
Pecks for dreams in each dustbins
What he searches?
A li’l bits of papers, coloured boxes, plastics and leftovers
Or the limitless positive hopes?… through each scrapss he hovers
Night falls, he slops down…..
Countless stars a crescent moon; Decent and big is his room
Sacks is his pillow, comfy as cushions
Lullabies are sang by the trains in motion.
There was a fight he remembers
Sulked in his mothers arm, baby he was;
Father perished in the riot leaving the family in deep sombre
A step in this urban city tagged them as ‘Refugee’
Pennyless, moulded in rags they were set free
Roads similar to mezannine, sky are the archdomes,
Scrap sacks are now his dream, Rag-picker his name is Rahim
Many a Rahim lost their childhoods
Durst in cruel fights, innocence lost before rudes
Gliding on skyhighs, we never peep
Basest thing gets ignored, as we love big leaps
Will the cries of Rahims’ fall mum??
Question a big Question makes me calm….
By : Moumita Dasgupta