RAGPICKERS

.  THE RAGPICKER AND THE MUSE

I sometimes wonder what kind of a poem

Would this nine year old black-faced scavenger write,

Were the Muse to infect him with divine madness,

Were the goddess Saraswati to come and sit on his tongue?

How would he respond as he discovers a sprawling pile

As big as the treasure Ali Baba had found

In the cave of the forty thieves?

Heaps of kitchen garbage, peelings of vegetables and fruits, bones,

Plastic bags, bottles, empty cardboard cartons, plastic pouches, bags

Of tea, medicines, spices, sweets, toothpastes, juices,

Wrappers of soaps, biscuits, soiled sanitary pads, infected swabs of cotton

Broken or empty ballpoint pens, scraps of newspapers, notebooks,

Egg shells, used condoms, mouldy bread, used shaving blades,  

Tooth brushes, metal scrap, fused bulbs, broken glass pieces,

China cups without handles, wires, strings, rags…

His eyeballs bursting at the sight of such a bounty

His nose assaulted with a cornucopia of odours

His legs entrenched knee-deep into the heap

His hands sifting the treasures and stuffing them into his huge plastic sack

Dogs, flies, cockroaches, mosquitoes contending with him for the leftovers…

Back in his den after disposing off his wealth

For the day’s earnings, lying flat on his back

How would he sum up his thoughts at the grand discovery

How would he thank the donors of these treasures

What kind of an invocation would he make to the Muse

And what kind of a poem would he compose?
                                                                                                       -T C Ghai