Kabaadiwala

Every Saturday and Sunday morning,

When I have decided to sleep late,

It’s his loud call that has woken me from my slumber,

Just one word, over and over, standing in the back lane.

He has decided to make his living,

From all the discarded junk in your house and in mine,

He is the 'kabaadiwala'  bhaiya,

Oh, I have loads to give him fine!

I call him upstairs…

Like every month, we begin to bargain,

He comes up from 8 for a kg of newspapers to 10,

I laugh at myself for having to go through the ritual again.

As he piles the newspapers in his sack,

I wonder where his ‘taraazu’ is today,

And then I see him dig into his pocket,

Flashing a spring balance instead to weigh!

Now some useless iron stuff that I don’t need,

Two irreparable chairs, a broken light,

Just all that I don’t need is what he needs,

And finally, good-bye beer bottles from last night!

He pays for what I felt was good riddance,

Then walks off quietly,

And I hear him again, loud and clear….

Same word, same tone, same pitch, same task…

Amidst piles of our waste, he spends each day,

I still catch him smile,

He mentions his family is in the village,

The high rental in the city is not worth the while.

 I ask him if he likes what he does,

I ask him how content is he,

“Didi, I barely can feed my family of four,

But happy is what I have decided to be!”

And then it’s the weekend again,

When my sole aim is to sleep late,

" कबाड़ी.... कबाड़ी......"   his voice resonates,

Just the same word over…the word that’s become this man’s fate!