It was an early July afternoon,

The sky was dark, overcast.

Bumper to bumper traffic on the highway,

Voices cursing as they passed

                                                          

Mothers collecting their children from school,

Muttering about being late.

People standing on the sidewalk,

Angry, furious with the wait.

                                                          

Hawkers calling their wares,

Adding to the chaos, the confusion.

Then a thunderous roar from up above,

Pelting drops amidst the din.

                                                          

Everyone suddenly rushing for cover,

Wading through water already knee-high.

Shoving, pushing, scurrying like mice,

As he watches, quietly standing by.

                                                          

He stares a while, wondering about the noise,

Then shrugs, slowly turns away.

The rain must have come at an inconvenient time,

For him though, it is just another day.

                                                          

The deluge, the drops grow bigger still,

Vehicles honk, people shout.

Unperturbed, a pensive smile,

He watches as they hurry about.

                                                          

Some fret they will be late for work,

Some wish to get home fast as can.

What wouldn’t he give for worries like those?

There he stands, a lonesome man.

                                                          

Unlike them, he is not troubled.

Nor in a hurry to get anywhere.

Rain and sun, sun and rain,

They come and go, what does he care?

                                                          

They look at him, nudge one another,

They have all seen him here before.

Every day, day after day,

Where is he from? Where does he go?

                                                          

Then they talk, they wonder, whisper,

Hushed voices, but he can hear.

Homeless! Homeless! Oh, pitiful!

The rain has stopped as have his tears.

                                                          

Each path is strange, each way unseen,

None lead him to an abode of his own.

For them, the rain may now have stopped,

For him though, there is no way home.

                                                                          

~Rrashima Swaarup Verma 

India