Damaged Sides Of A Cursed Society
Tea-stalls are the synonyms of hustle & bustle,
when winter mornings chill our spine down;
My shaky hands craved for a ‘Malai chai’,
when he came with his lean hands & skinny legs,
with a plate full of cups,serving the smell of excitement,
His half-covered body with a torn sweater
& ragged half pant dragged me in an abyss of shame.
My mind shattered when my vision drew a portrait
only dwelling in sheer ‘child-abusing’.
I tried to escape from his innocent smile,
& i wished his complain less face should never see
the slate & chalk & die in the curse of illiteracy.
I rapidly got up without taking a one sip
& his eyes watched me with the same query
I’d watched yesterday in an another 6 years old teaboy.
I couldn’t escape this trap of shame any sooner,
when a little one suddenly bumped upon my legs
persuading to buy a daily journal from him.
I had to buy one whether he is starving or not,
my heart was carrying weight now
with each of his mellifluous tone,
I would’ve started crying thinking
if he could ever trace a singing school
& felt bereaved being abandoned
in spite of having a god-gifted voice.
This time the heinous portrait added a little more crime,
a little more blood stains in the name of “child-abusing”.
I shedded tears out of an unknown fear
of the insight of my grey childhood,
as if a uneven clothes lost its fine gossamers.
I exited soon from his captivating approach.
Sudden mist covered my soul immediately
& i saw an unending puzzle left it with hard squeak.
I never noticed the sky squeaks too,
but in my case, i felt my bland sky was now drenched
with sobs dripping the drops of injustice,
sometimes collapsing its flesh septisized with the wounds of “child-abusement”.
It was not the end i forgot to tell!
Well, roadside bottle bargainers aren’t left too,
not left from the gum of sticky lust drops,
a car passed off just beside me,
clutching a tender hand of another 8 years old,
he was stunned, dropped the bunches
of bottles he picked from the corners of dustbins,
& got carried away with the rushing flow of the car.
I closed my eyes this time, couldn’t anymore bear,
“Does it pain?”, i took a reliefless long sigh in vain;
I quivered in this terribility of situation.
I witnessed a lot today, stressed a lot today,
“Let him face whatever he feels, he might be accustomed”, i ignored it from my epidermal outlet,
yet it vacuumed my inner flesh eradicating my peace.
I knew he wasn’t a sex-slave but servile for his hunger.
I’m clueless if i’ll ever get to find its extreme point,
but my cancerous breathe knows all of this abusing,
all of how much our brain cells are carrying shit!
Poetry No -2