Sagged on the bony frame
A dirty torn sari
Was draped around the dame
No twinkle in her eyes
No voice in her throat
The blisters on her temples
Resembled cracks on the road
Rested thick black glasses
On the bridge of her nose
The wrinkles on the face
Told the tale of her woes
Shrivelled and withered
She struck a sorry sight
In the busy streets of Mumbai
No care for her plight
But neither she begged for alms
Nor did she utter a cry
She earned a living for herself
Wanting to give faith a try
With quivering hands
And furrowed brow
She wove wicker baskets
From strips of willow
I walked across the street
Towards the poor oldie
With a fist clinking with coins
And a heart bleeding sympathy
She raised her head to me
Proud of yet another win
Crinkling up her face
In a priceless toothless grin
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