Treasure Hunt

There is a little market.
No, it doesn't open everyday,
Only when the god rests,
these little elves, in their heavy satchels,
carries, drag, roll, tumble, unload,
gems; gems of bark and ink, sometimes cardboard.

From the gate of Delhi, to the Main Mosque,
No, it doesn't decorate both sides of roads,
Only left, left only to them.
They bring their carpets, rugs, 
or sometimes sit upon bare spine of earth
and pour out their gems out, waiting for buyers.


"It's too expensive","What's bulk discount?"
"Other one is giving cheaper","Oh!! its too old"
chatters, murmurs, hustle-bustle all around,
and a few good gems do found
praising hands, and full wallets
Oh! It's all business.



Hardcover, or Paperback, these gems,
don't discriminate, that's left to us.
Some are discarded during great shelf's rearrangement
other just read and done.
Oh, but they will find someone one day
'Cause in that market, nothing change.

A Market

I saw a rag picker,
early,when the shops were shut,
bent like a new moon,
beard still spotted with last night's curry.
dragging his torn out, worn out slippers,
and a tattered bag,
A pair of eyes, searching, for a sparkle or two,
wishing it to be his lucky day, but he knew better. 

I saw a tea vendor,
navigating through crowd.
With stiff hands,carrying teacups,
and a mathri or two.
long,slender, shrill voiced,
he knew his routine, nothing differs,
neither he desires it to be. 
With heavy hands he comes,with heavy hands he departs. 

I saw a shouter,
ones whose soul earning depends on
the customers he can bring.
shouting on top of lungs,
claiming his employer's superiority,
he is a small teen
one who never went to school,
or maybe he didn't want to. 

the shouter drank the tea, and threw the cup,
next morning it was promptly collected by rag picker,
the bigger light kept turning.