no gandhi cap.
atmaram patil, the dabbawalla,
came and went with the dabba.
grandma died at some old age in
a village.
for 10 days, no cap;
no Rama, Krishna, Hari, at the
Hanuman temple;
on day 11, a washed Gandhi cap was back,
the beard shaved, the loss consumed.
atma is an accepted intruder at CCTV-housing
societies;
unafraid of Dominos, never fakes a rush;
is prompt with food garnished with homecare;
sprinkles tambakku-stained smiles; shuns talk;
no trespasser at air-conditioned offices on the Hill
where computers and plainspeople make faces;
its a five-minute drive by boeing or airbus
to Hyde park or Central park for Hill residents.
atma, squeezed in a harassed local,
camps at a chawl beyond the municipal park.
they have Tom Cruise; atma has Tukka;
walks to Pandharpur every aashad;
pratibha, his wife, is a housemaid;
white pyjama,
white kurta,
a red or black tilak,
a tired sigh of Deva, Panduranga,
a half-inch hard pair of chappals beaten
soft by the village cobbler;
no drinks;
no sex (with two grown up daughters, sleeps alone);
a ball of tobacco tucked into the gums, the lone indulgence,
says atma, holding his ear-lobes.
daughters at a school help mother;
women cannot be dabbawallas;
spectacled, are at a discount.
the case rests with Panduranga abandoned on
the Way by Meera and Tukka,
seeking compassion.
