The Moustache Man




He was the Moustache Man for us,
For all the children travelling by his bus,
The first day I was scared of him,
His long whiskers, ha ha and equally long limbs,
Slowly he won over me, like the others,
Softly he greeted our mothers,
He would chuckle,
Show us his muscles ,
Curl up his moustache
And laugh aloud like a water splash,
Melodiously he would sing,
Guffaw and wink,
Innumerable stories from his lips flowed,
Meticulously as he steered the vehicle on the road,
Stories of bad men and good men,
Of happy men, women and children,
He sang about Krishna and Rama,
Told us about the Mahabharata and Ramayana,
Of the rivers and hills of his village,
As his eyes lit up with happy images
And he stroked his moustache with pride,
Setting the stray hairs aside,
He made us look forward to the day
Keeping us happy and gay 
To last all through school,
On the way back he would  again refuel
Our energy,
Filling us up with his laughter, away from all lethargy,
We took him to be the most powerful,
 Magical and wonderful,
We saw him sad and devastated,
He cried and hugged each one,
Stupefied we stood, but he winked when done,
With an upward stroke on his moustache,
Singing aloud on the driver's seat he crashed
to drive his bus,
Listening to his happy voice, one last time, all of us.

©Madhumita