Three Poems

Sunil Sharma


By tiny hands---
His only possession
In a bleak tin-room
On a Mumbai pavement.

Traffic and a crow

The crow cawed
Its voice rising above
The traffic din;
Sounding sweeter than
The harsh decibels;
Jolting a fevered mind
And making it search for
The signs of
Nature in the urban jungle


That familiar feeling, fluttering, drying of throat,
Pounding of a battered heart when---
Facing hostile interviewers sitting prim and confident
Behind the well-polished mahogany table, sending verbal darts
In a venue reeking of corporate success, conceit and arrogance
To a guy out-of-job, suburban, middle-class, hungry and bald, unsure
Of the authenticity of their mimicry of the British accent or branded clothes in an Indian room;
Or, holding the hand of a terminally-ill in a gleaming
Ward full of lights and lingering smells of death and decay
Hoping against hope, praying lips;
Or, waiting for an oval face that can be spotted
In a crowd of hundreds on a Mumbai railway platform
And once seen, the anticipation crashes over like a tidal wave!

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