The bus stop is my haunt,
Near the paan waala's shop,
Radio playing within
As I roam around outside,
Or sit in a corner
Waiting for the next bus
To arrive with passengers
Whose luggage I can carry,
Earn my living.

Sometimes,
I can hear people discussing the scores
Of some match,
And I mingle with the crowd,
Stand close to the radio
Trying to catch the crackling voice,
"Sachin hits a four!"
And everyone rejoices,
Shout and slap one another on the back,
Losing their miseries
In a moment of joy.

There was a time
When I could not stand it,
Pushed to the past,
What could have been,
I was filled with envy and anger,
But those emotions have dried up,
Like a parched well under the scorching sun,
There is an emptiness left inside,
Blaming it on fate is easier.

On some days
I have nothing to take home,
But I still hold on,
The memories feed my hungry stomach,
The only fragment I have left
Of a reality lost in a dream,
Where would I be
If someone had reached out and helped,
Given me what I deserved...

Useless ramblings these are,
Perhaps I should sell it,
Just a coin of silver,
"National Games - 1996
Athletics (5000 m)"
All it ever brought for me
Were fickle promises,
Soon forgotten in a maze of apathy,
At least tomorrow it will serve a purpose,
It can buy me dinner...

~ Rahul Misra ~