Sunday, 9 October 2011


Actual Photograph of Rajkumar,11
(Hostel No.4,M.A.N.I.T Bhopal, India, 18/09/201

As accustomed by me,

Again I have come to this place today,

Place, where he works,

Brown wavy hair, grimy attires,

unpleasant hoarse voice, and

that ever smiling round plump face...

His wraps, loose like a cloak,

Perhaps, some teenager would have given him,

and hair, those sapless fibres,

as if not touched,

by a single drop of oil, from his birth.

All he do'es,

is washing dirty cutleries,

perhaps, more than a ton daily,

of those swarm of guys,

serving orders, and

arranging things, in that stall he works in,

in that stall, where we graze daily.


No fairy tales to listen,

no one who cares,

no good food to eat,

no good clothes to wear.

All he has, and feels joy in,

is seeing our cellphones,

coloured magic boxes for him,

and singing songs,

or I should say roaring,

in the corridors.


No slides to slide upon,

no ropes to jump,

no toys to play with,

no sweets to taste.

For rubber tubes, his slides,

spit bubbles, his fantasies,

stone pebbles, his toys,

and dry chappaties, his sweets,

give him all the pleasures,

and a steep boom,

to his captivating smile...


Still he is happy, not aware,

Of the murky depths of his future,

Of the life of the kids outside,

of his age.

Situations and fortunes,

often dwarf-en the dreams...


Perhaps whatever, going on,

is all ethical, good for him.

Better, is dying unaware of the disease,

than, by knowing it can't be cured...


As I, everybody thinks,

about his life, his future,

for a while,

with a sip of tea,

with a puff of smoke,

when his chubby face,

comes before our eyes,

but no one...seriously no one,

dares to do something for him.


All butcher hearts, paying no attention,

to that old familiar voice,

from deep inside the heart,

that something is to be mended,

something, is going wrong,

somebody, is suffering,

something, could be far better...


Tomorrow again, I'll go to that stall,

and think for a while,

with a sip of my tea,

with a puff of smoke,

"As everybody call him,

is he...really, a Rajkumar?"...

                                               -  Kshitiz Upadhyay 

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