Missing mangoes

As I walk

Home

from the

Karate class with a tear in my eye

I look at the

Roadside vendor of Fruit(s).

His skin is

Cold,

Textured like emery paper

scaled with the scars of

Old age.

Eyes dark grey,

Cloudy filled with

Emptiness

and

Despair.

Spine bent

Ribs visible

Hair cropped and

White.

Family abandoned him.

The fruits are

Displayed on a jute bag since time immemorial

it seems.

Nobody even grants

him a look.

My grandfather and I

covered in sand from head to toe

Traverse in his

Direction.

He glances at us and laughs

with an ear-to-ear smile

the brightest I'd ever see his bony face

was only at this moment.

I bend down,

Pick up and smell

All those

Juicy, half-orange

Half-green

Mangoes.

Its

Refreshing

and

Soothing.

Fills my soul

with an

Inexplicable

Warmth.

On rainy days,

He'd still sit down there

with an

Umbrella full of holes

and a rattling

Wooden handle.

But he wouldn't let go.

I haven't seen a man

Fight more

Sincerely against Nature

Just to exist.

This continued

On & on for a

Long time.

Two years later

I stopped going to

that

Karate gym.

When I asked

My grandpa

How was the old

Mango-man

doin'

He replied

"The man died, son.

Last December

On the road

After having an

Heart attack."

I felt

SaD.