" Low - Class - Tramps "

I’m one of

Those,

Whom you call,

Low – class- tramps.

I’m found

Everywhere,

Doing almost

Every work.

Sometimes

I’m seen

At the bus-stands,

And sometimes

At the railway station.

Filthily clad in

Noisome clobber.

Sometimes

I’m found

Carrying loads.

And sometimes

Picking up rags.

Sometimes

I’m found

Washing utensils

And sometimes

Seeking for

Leftovers

Among them.

I feed on, what

You throw away.

And wear, what

You find useless.

And yet sometimes

My clothes

Look gorgeous

For often

I pick- pockets

As

Heavy wallets

Tempt me!

And I buy

Clothes from

Second-hand marts!

The men

Of my lots

Are found

Drunk on roadsides

Sometimes

Teasing the women

Of your lots!

And sometimes

Whistling Bollywood songs.

But

Do not the men

Of your lots

Do the same?

…Well…

Perhaps…

In a

Sophisticated way!

And the women…

Of my lots

Are found

Holding a weeping child,

Begging all the while.

They,

Shy not to beg,

But you

May to give.

But still…

Some of you

Show pity

And thus

Grows their business!

I’m one of

These,

Whom you call

‘Low – class – tramps’.

Found in

Slums and ghettos

And often

Encroaching

Your lands

And the

Public pavements!

The most detestable

Yet

The most wanted

For doing

The detestable tasks!

I’m one of

Those,

Whom you call

‘Low – class – tramps’.

And

The so called‘Uncouth – rouge

' Ravished Dream - Land '

I had my own world of dreams,

Of golden birds and silver streams,

Of mountains blue and forests green.

Where the season was an eternal spring,

Where bees did swarm and birds did sing,

And happiness did joyous colours bring.

But now it’s dark like a gloomy tomb,

And not a single flower does bloom.

And there’s a silence all around,

Like a lonely cremation ground.

It’s all dark but there’s one fire,

Of my burning dreams and desire,

As if they are all put on a pyre.

Here all pains, now regiments make,

As if soon a war would break,

And from me, all my happiness take.

And here would be armies of pain,

Capturing my dream-world lane by lane.

And like a prisoner of war, I would stand,

On my own ravished and looted land.

Hunger

Hunger does have

a mystery,

As the fathomless

Sea-waves,

On dark and dreary

Shores have...

Forward they dash,

And violently splash,

As on a battle field,

But soon retreat silently.

So does the hunger,

It roars and thunders,

But faints, when faints,

The hungry being...

For A Fifty-Rupee Note

There are kids who get plenty of pocket-money to spend on fast-food, cold-drinks, comics and other goodies... yet their greed never ends...and pocket-money never stays...and they are ever complaining...but yet there are other kids ...who are not even treated as kids...and they work very hard the whole day...but can never save a penny on their name...they work as daily-wagers...and get a sum of mere Rs. 50 /- every day....and if they miss a single day....what they get is...starvation,misery,rancour...
This poem is dedicated to all such kids....who work ...but ...

                                   

"For A Fifty-Rupee Note"

Water that washes

Your dirty vestibules

And slimy verandas

Always bear

Tiny drops of my sweat

That I have sold

For a fifty-rupee note.

Food that I cook

For you and your

Starving customers,

Tells the story

Of my Starvation

Which I bear

For a fifty-rupee note.

I sleep all night,

Dreamlessly reposing,

Wrapped in my

Tattered blanket,

On a dirty little cot.

As my dreams're sold

For a fifty-rupee note.

You hit me hard,

I cry not a bit.

You call me names,

I smile shamelessly.

I have no shame,

As I have sold it ,

For a fifty-rupee note.

People fear me,

For I may be

A dangerous criminal.

I have no manners,

And no etiquettes

As I've not learnt any

For a fifty-rupee note.

.......