THE LEPER ON THE OVERBRIDGE

Every morning you’d find him there
An unmistakable presence
pounced upon by passing stares,
that never found the compassion
nor the audacity to return.
Yet onto the overbridge he clambered,
Often accompanied by a dog
Reputed for being more or less a flea.
Crouching over a copper vessel
Which at the toss of an occasional dime
Rang aloud with an impish glee.
Early chills of the cackling metropolis breeze
Braved unfelt by the thickening nerves
Brisk steps of mankind passing by
rubbing skin and billowing smoke,
made him reminisce the days of yore
when he was just a tiny munchkin
bestirring eagerly to his mother’s voice,
to huddle beside her near the kitchen fire.
to gawk at the daily ritual of oatmeal
in an iron pan getting drier,
An innocence oblivious to the miasma
of a star crossed rotting existence
“Must be the sins committed in previous births”, they said
That drew the local deity’s ire.
The days when the rays were sheltered
in the excited glint of those hazel eyes
Warm wintery afternoons spent chasing kites,
cut loose in the open skies
Recalling his mother’s words
on how the warmth emanated
from where the sky and earth
had to the sun a little space rent
Reflecting back on the days
he had made it to the other end,
running amidst yellow blooming mustard greens
And today yet again it soared above the horizon
the warmth wasted on lumps of decaying flesh
While the world basked in the altruistic sun
A sore cringing echoed within his heart
Moistness that drenched his face
he wished he had palms to hide.
And then there were the evenings
That wore an eerie green glow
The twilight hour when the rains just won’t relent
Always made me wonder
where the leper on those days went
The ringing splish splosh of carts and hoofs                                                  
and human feet that on quaggy grounds tread,
when the heavens had opened up
to dribble droplets down the thatched roof
Vague Memories of the raging storm,
May give him solace in his days of dread
For he can no longer feel
but only hear the soft green drizzle                  
raining down on dead autumn leaves.
He alongwith a family of seven
had toiled in the fields
under the watchful gaze of the midday sun
the searing heat had scorched their weary souls,
sapping them to slow down their run
Lunching on griddled  wheatmeal bread and onions,
Sweating blood to overcome
the poverty looming near at hand
armed with a sprightly resolve
was every strike of that spade
Life today had lost all meaning,
living out on a borrowed purse.
For every fathom of passion deep
there were inches that were on the hade
Bullied and scourged by an integumental curse.
Shunned by his kin,
the only people who could care
His contagion became the grounds
for the neighbourhood abhorrence
With none left to offer a pint of water
Drinking tears,to a terrain unknown he trod.
Cut loose were the threads
that had bound the mortal
Left confounded as to what his life meant
Dreamy recollections of a deserted family
Had strengthened his resolve
Of being there for his own,
Today snubbed by them
He has no choice
but to clear out and begone!.
Yes for the city he left
Somewhere he would be pitied
Where detesting is an unaffordable indulgence
in hard pressed weary lives.
Where he would only be an aberration
with no means to fend,
A stranger who would walk the land
till the day he rotted out of this hell.
Trains would come through one
and depart through another line
sending quivers up that bridge of sighs,
I believe he could feel in his spine
The winter,summer,rains will interchange
so will the footfalls on the bridge
But if you were an early rising stroller,
you could catch the leper on his way.
Until then he’ll keep one guessing
on those gingerly descending wintery mornings
And while he makes you wait
let these words of Eliot
flash across your searching minds,
“This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper”