The boy.


As I walked home one evening

sunk in thought,

I was broken from my reverie by a voice

like a guitar with broken strings.

I looked down and saw a boy

eyes sunk, skin parched like a dead cow’s.

I stopped and thought a while

of the food wasted at home

and the malai I use to soften my skin.

His voice was still pleading

his stance a begging.

I dropped a coin in his out-stretched palm.

His face now lit up.

clutching the coin I dropped

he hobbled away.

The poor lame boy.


By: Gulsum Basheer.

Published in Youthink-Indian Express. 7-5-81


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