March of glory

Earth is his bed, sky the roof,

No walls for his humble home.

Nomads his parents are whose

Names are not even in voters list.

His dress a soiled underwear,

Hair unkempt, body unwashed,

A ten year old boy he is who

Tiles to hair a fallen feather erect,

Toys a broken reed in one hand.

Boys (and also girls) march on

In procession who half nude

In loin clothes yellow or blue.

Peacock feathers decorate heads,

Flute and butter in either hands,

Breasts profuse with garlands

But they feel uncomfortable

When compelled to walk scantily dressed

Leaving aside public school uniforms

Through street braving public gaze.

They wonder whether Krishna in boyhood,

Whose birthday they’re celebrating

Ever felt at home in this odd

Make up like this uncouth boy

Gazing with a quizzical smile

And a rare sparkle in his eyes.

The sight disturbs some hidden chords

In the depth of their memory.