Below: The Poverty Lines

© Keegan Crasto

[Rape is a heinous crime. But what is more horrendous is the thought that for every rape case coming to light, there might be nine others going unreported. Which just goes to tell, what a vile world this is, with vilest worms to dwell.]

She came hobbling,

Toward me,

In a crowded train compartment;

Baby in a sling,

And poverty

Clung to her. She went

About asking for alms.

They looked to the side,

And spurned-

Her empty pleading palms,

And a rupee denied,

Though they in thousands earned.

Which made me wonder if her outstretchéd

Arms were, or the world more wretched.

I looked across the aisle

At the boy;

His happy eyes, unblinking,

Made me smile.

But his joy

Also set me thinking:

Why beggars have babies at all?

They don't deserve it-

Sleeping on a station,

After a 'meal' at a stall,

After a day of begging for it.

She drew near; I asked her this question-

"When your own stomach, by poverty, is torn,

Don't you think the baby was better left unborn??"

She spoke in such a voice

At this,

As I'd never heard before,

"I don't know who the boy's

Father is,

Of those fucking four,

Who performed this beastly deed.

Lost have I all faith

In this vile world, and still,

I beg, I plead

Till I'm out of breath,

So my son can have his fill."

Saying this, she moved away from me, and then the baby cried;

My purse-strings remained taut, and yet my heartstrings flew untied.