The Three 100 Rs.
It was rainy season,
I had only a single pair of shoes,
Wearing the shoes out,
Walking through the winding road with slope,
The road filled with beautiful orange gul mohor petals fallen down,
To and fro from hostel to bus stop to college,
In a beautiful place call Banashankari.
One day it gave up beyond repair,
Opening once again like an alligator,
Speaking as fast as I could,
I told my mother I needed to get a new shoes,
There was silence in the other end,
And I had to keep the phone down as the LED display was nearing Rs.10.
Her silence meant a lot,
She must be thinking how she is going to send extra money,
When the funds are low,
When there are very few people to turn to borrow money,
When they openly comment of how tight their money is,
For they see her and think she will ask for money.
As though God read her mind,
She chanced upon this old man that day,
Who was enquiring about my studies,
The old man who has always been kind to us,
Giving his treasured crisp notes of three 100 Rs.
After learning about my shoes.
He left this world and I miss him,
But he stayed in my heart,
He was not related to me,
But bounded very closely by his love and humanity,
And I search for him in every old person I meet now,
Giving me a special bond with aging people.
An Experimental attempt to put thoughts in writing by Monica Ingudam.