Rag pickers | Nidhi Joshi

Hands chapped and grimy,
Hair dusty and slimy
Clothes torn and shabby,
Rummaging through the heaps of litter
Piled with money we mindlessly fritter
Sun up and sun down
The naked feet move around
In search of junk strewn on the ground

In the crowded streets and desolate lanes
In the joggers parks and the playgrounds
On the stations and the bus stands
In feisty bazaars and festive fairs
Scrawny figures scamper about
Stooping down to pick each piece
Examining it with gleeful ease
Flinging into canvass bags so round,
Broken spoons and plastic mugs
Beer bottles and metal caps
Belt buckles and tattered shoes

At the dusk,
Squatting under the flyovers
Dragging in the cigarette stubs
Turning over the run-down bags
Displaying the day’s rags
Admiring what the other got
Pulling out of the pyjama’s pocket
A glittering silver brooch
An old mobile set
Boasting of the trials
to clinch the marvellous lot
A stronger hand darts in
Snatching the brooch
Chasing the thief in the swarm
Hollering and cursing

Gathered in noisy groups
Squabbling with each other
Waiting for their turn at the junk dealer’s
Haggling for a higher price
Walking away with crumpled notes
To the dilapidated stationery stores
Buying inebriating white fluid
Floating in the air with each swig
Experiencing the lightness of being
Born in deprivation
Lost to the indifferent world

Sitting in bunches on the kerb,
Perching on the railing
Near old hawker’s stand
Crowding around a decked-up lady
Yanking her stole, swanky hand bag
Begging her to buy some rice puffs
Snatching the packet, throwing it up in the air
Till the puffs scatter on the ground
Bending over to pick the soiled grain,
Stuffing in the mouth and munching
Half eating and half dropping

In the night,
Sprawling on the pavements
Recounting the days’ events
Hoping to find again
The stolen silver brooch
Closing the eyes to revisit the dream
Of sitting in ice-cream parlour
Digging into enormous cups
Just as the rich kids do

Living in dirt and squalor
to make the city spic
Yet we scorn at them
‘Ah the little pigs’
Slender shoulders, overbearing sacks
Sweet Childhood lost in rags.

Nidhi Joshi writes on Indian Review.