Reverie

    Blazing sun and scorching heat, Beads of toil trickling down in beat. Drenching the baniyaan in silent feat, Kaka, the rickshawala, pulling through the street.   The pounding rhythm of turning wheels, Two of the three roll with measured heels. Kaka is the third, part of the frame, Tethered to toil, yet no badge, no name.   One step forward, two steps behind, He tugs his cart with a soldier’s mind. Through potholes deep and roads unkind, He hauls the weight of humankind.   His face haggard, blemishes shown, Eyes alert, though dreams forlorn. Cheeks hollowed, spirit torn, Yet Kaka stood with pride, no fate could scorn.   No shoes on feet, on roads burning hot, The sun, a whip he never forgot. When skies collapse in merciless rain, He braves the storm with silent pain.   The pounding roar of his weary heart, Keeps his rhythm in a cautious start. Imploring his body not to fall apart, Kaka with...