Little Kishen

In a small corner

away from the teaming crowd,

sat Kishen, the little boy,

covered in a shroud.

Tears rolled down his cheeks

as he cried in pain,

disgraced by the cruelty of his master,

he had been whipped again.

While cleaning the bowl of milk,

his childhood had made a wish,

to taste the left-out drops of elixir

that other privileged relish.

But cruel was his fate,

like the world and his master,

who kicked and abused him

for this ‘unpardonable blunder’.

His mistake was to dream,

to make simple wishes of life,

for he was poor and downtrodden,

destined to struggle in strife.

Nine delicate years in this world,

an age for sweets and toy,

Kishen had so longed

even for a moment of joy.

Destined to work tirelessly

from the day he lost his father,

he toiled to make both ends meet,

to fend himself and his sick mother.

The day even since

with his small hands,

he searched for the mirage

in the myriad of sand.

By now hunger, thirst and pain

had pushed the young soul

into an unconscious sleep;

Or was it curtain to his role?

Rain splashed on his body,

rudely awaking him to reality,

as he struggled to stand

he was mocked by humanity.

Drenched all over,

he trudged shivering in cold.

Suddenly he fell across

when he could no more hold.

The storm had passed,

as had the night,

there lay near the roadside

an object motionless in white.

Motionless, lifeless,

he was like a stone.

Kishen had died

his mother left behind to moan.

Onlookers and passer-byes

stopped for a while out of curiosity;

Mercifully they threw some coins;

Even a coffin was in scarcity.

Kishen’s mother couldn’t cry any more,

for even the tears had dried,

as she stared at the coins

for which her son had died.

She lifted her dead son,

lovingly in her arms,

and walked towards the cemetery

leaving behind the alms.

She cried and smiled

and screamed in pain -

“How many more Kishens have to die

of poverty and disdain?”