that mango-man (or woh aam aadmi).

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 seemed.

Nobody even grants

him a look.

 

My grandfather

and I

covered in

sand from head to toe

Traversed 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.