by Nandagopal T
Muthu, with his fast tongue,
Talked long and deep about his life;
About how his daughters were young
But married to nephews of his wife.
His aching hands held all its veins,
Chiselled and abrupt like ruins of yore;
Like the snaking slow, wayward lanes
In this corner heartland of Bangalore.
He spoke of hopes that never did stop,
Of his past forty and recent years;
Forty in the city, ten at this very shop
And he talked, too, a little of his fears.
“The world is changing fast, leaving me behind,”
He said. He had only few years to live;
And what reasons could he find
To live more? All he had to do, and had done, was give
A better life to his wife and daughters
And to put above himself a roof with rafters.
“I’ve done well by Indian standards,”
He said laughing, “Indian standards.”
Pic: Wikipedia
