The Peddler’s Meal

Barefoot he hobbled, on the scorched tarmac floor.

Wincing in pain, shuffling from door to door.

Though bent over in pain, proud was his gait.

Not alms he sought, he peddled petty freight.

He knocked and waited, expectations in his eyes.

Pity he did not seek. For his goods, a just price!

Him I saw not. Nor the dignity of his chore.

Unfeeling, unseeing eyes - conditioned to ignore.

Too many on these streets, a society ill at ease;

Dehumanized and exploited, a cursed incurable disease.

He had mere moments, until the lights turned green.

Seeking hope, seeking succour. His vision sharp and keen.

“Buy his goods”. Fervently, she nudged.

Startled, I beckoned. And hither the old man trudged.

“Ear buds, Sir”, he implored. “None better than these.

And quite reasonable too, a mere twenty rupees!”

I dared not to bargain, her stern visage I espied.

And paid him his dues, for the needless goods he plied.

My frowns persisted, would this purchase I repent?

Wasted money, or worse, not worth a red cent?

He paused for a moment, his relief fighting to conceal.

And said, “This first sale will provide for my meal”!

She judged him not. Only she saw his pride.

One illumined heart, where compassion doth reside.

Chinmoy Bhattacharjee