THE NIMBU MIRCHI WALE BABA
( THE OLD MAN WHO SOLD LEMONS AND CHILLI)



He acted crazy and insane,
To what others said, he was immune,
Every morning he rose,
Pray with his eyes closed,
Head bowed down
In obeisance 
To the 'Great One',
Once he was done,
He nibbled on a dried toast
Some tea, that the 'chaiwala' would host,
Then gather his sac full of patches,
Pull down his pajamas to hide the bloody scratches,
Everyday there was a new wound on him,
God knows from where he got them.


His sack full of lemons,
Coriander green, small little melons,
Fragrant mint, chilli and ginger,
He would set off humming a tune, turning his fingers
Like a musician ,
As people around him made fun,
The 'nimbu, mirchiwale baba', he did never bother,
To shout or show his anger,
Instead humming he walked to the houses few,
Since years whom he knew,
Sell them some of his stock, his ware,
Telling them old stories his heart he would bare,
Have some tea that they would offer,
Shower his blessings so they would prosper.


The child in me loved his songs,
The lilt in his voice strong,
As he called out to the people 
On the stairs he would crumple,
The teenager in me loved his stories,
Happily he answered my queries,
He spoke about his love affair
With a sensational singing star,
How he spent his years 
And his fortunes on her,
She loved him till she was a celebrity,
Then throwing him out like a rag dirty,
In her love he still sang her songs,
Still in love with her, forgiving all her wrongs.


His love he would never douse nor dampen,
Talking about everything that happened,
About her attitude and singing he would enlighten
Us, on her mention, his face would brighten,
He belonged to nobility he said,
Now to her memories devoted,
Although deceived,
He was not bereaved,
Keeping her memories alive
In his heart, through his stories so vivid and live,
If someone did not believe, he would leave with a chortle,
A bit angry, but never quarreled.


Every evening he lighted a lamp
On the 'chaiwala's' ramp,
A fire within his heart burning,
He would start churning
Her songs in his voice clear,
His face shining like a spotless mirror,
Day after day, night after night,
He was always there in his yellowing whites;
But one day he never came to the doors
He daily visited, not to be seen anymore,
People say she got him killed,
She felt her name he befouled, 
Did not she know he truly loved her?
Or was deception always there in that blood of hers?


I still remember his tall figure,
His large eyes, the complexion fair,
The long strides,
His sac by his side,
The powerful voice,
The songs made us rejoice,
His love for her,
Making his eyes water;
I liked her songs because of him,
You can take it as one of my whims,
I never got myself to like her,
Still I usually prefer not to hear
Her; Although she was rich and a legend,
For me she remains a pauper, deceitful and wretched.

©Madhumita

*chaiwala - tea seller
*Nimbu mirchi wale- one who sold lemons and chilli
*Baba- An old man