I could never fathom how he did
it;
shoulders broad, eyes bright and
warm, and a suitcase chained to
his arm.
For thirty odd years--
rain, drought and loveless
afternoons--
he did it. Every single day.
I never knew the weight of the
suitcase untill I was a man
myself.

He must be made out of rocks,
I thought, young.
Bone made out of iron,
Black opal eyes and skin as rough
and old as lump of coal.
Yet every night there emerged a
candy out of his pocket,
and filled my mouth with luxuries
we couldn't dream of.
There was a garden in this
coal-filled landscape, and for
years hence, I still savour those
candies borne out of them.

Today he is fraile and tiny,
the chain on his suitcase is
broken,
it's mine now.
Yet, whenever these chain grow
too heavy on me,
he soothes me with a promise:
that he would put on all the
chains in these world if it means
saving me from the world that
eats me every night.

The man with a smile,
Oh, how could he smile every
day?
How could he?
-Saurabh Kokane