the beggar lady

sadequain

she was fixture at the corner

of aram bagh and frere roads

kashkol in hand, fulgid cheeks
jowls hanging loose

pleading at passers by

with big blurry brown eyes

rarely uttering a word

pedestrians would throw coins

twice a year on holy days

a seth in a long shiny car

would visit her in the dark

bringing her fresh clothes and

for the next few days

she vexed at freshness

one night as pie dogs howled

the beggar lady squat-sleeping

in her corner

a car ran over the curb

pinning her against the wall

Edhi came and hauled her away

the next day a paraplegic

took her spot - ob la di

the other day

not under the influence

i wondered about her

who was she?

where did she come from?

did she have family?

did she dream?

did she dare...?

and that led to...

what is life?

is there a higher purpose?

should there be a purpose?

how long before the tireless

world-waves wash in their wake

dreams dreamt and undreamt?

and then i dozed off

under the peepul tree

under the peepul tree
the children on a mat
the teacher - with pugree and cane
read and the students repeated
as the squirrels (not you ss) frolicked

then out came wooden takhtis (tablets)
with twigs dipped in ink
they'd copy alphabets
at home before dusk
they'd wash the takhti
with clay and let it dry
for the next day

this elementary system
produced the Gandhis
we needed. i wonder
if this can herald change
dramatically different