Golden Cauldron Logo


by published


A spring evening begins,
He sits in a corner of his broken home
Watching the lady of the house.
Engrossed in work she doesn’t notice
Her 6-year-old’s longing gaze.
She packs the abir for the next day’s sale.


Late in the morning, around 11 o’ clock,
A teenager peeks from the balcony.
Right below on the streets,
A concoction of hues, pink, blue and green
cover every inch of the colony.
The young lovers giggle hand-in-hand
The friends yell in joy
But the transgender teen, watching from above
Can only yearn, wishing to be accepted as a girl, not a boy.


She turned over in bed
As the fifth customer left.
Her back was smarting,
Her legs were numb
But she didn’t feel any pain.
She stared at the bleak ceiling all day long
She endured the pain.
She kept mum, so she could give some joy
To the little one, at home, wanting to play.


The evening came in full circle as the Das house dressed like a bride.
The big garden, of the big house,
Filled with shiny lights.
The children were drenched in colour.
The children frolicked and played.
The adults watched them in pride.
The adults gambled away.
Now the man who’d paid for every brick
Lay crippled in his bed.
He wasn’t invited, he wasn’t involved, no
He was just a waste.
He had given them all this wealth
He had given them life.
And all he got in return was
The tear overflowing his eye.