He had moustache to be proud of,
earlobes pierced with circular rings of brass,
wound a gaudy turban on his scalp,
wore frilled cloth clinging tautly to his skinny
frame,
clasped an iron bludgeon for self defense,
chopped tree wood with thick blades of stainless
steel,
climbed bare walls of brick with large urban feet,
took bath in monsoon ponds of muddy water,
adroitly lit roaring fires with bundles of
dead sea weed,
relied on changing positions of the sun for an update
on time,
showered fruit and petal on daintily sculptured feet
of the deity,
guffawed whole heartedly at mindless chatter
prevalent in village,
coated walls of his mud baked hut with pure cowdung
plaster,
hurtled a volley of loud abuse at son for skipping
school,
milked the cow to professional perfection,
wore a jugglery of threads sewn with superstition,
uttered inaudible phrases in broken English,
guiding overseas tourist through dilapidated walls of
the castle,
being the solitary source of monthly wages,
was a thorough blend of impetuousness and rural
flamboyance,
his dreams had never crossed territories of his
village,
with reflections of unexplored charisma lurking in his
eyes,
he proclaimed loud with dignity to be the ‘KING OF THE
VILLAGE
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
© nikhilparekh
