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