The Man Under The Tree


I am the man under the tree.

I have seen people cry.

I have seen people laugh.

I have seen people beg too.

And, I have seen people die.

I am the man under the tree.

 

I am the man under the tree.

But I have not cried.

I have not laughed.

I have not begged too.

And, I am still alive.

I am the man under the tree.

 

I am the man under the tree.

For long I have spoken no word.

Not a single word have I spoken.

Long years under this tree

On the roadside.

I am the man under the tree.

 

I am the man under the tree.

I see the world of others.

I live a world of mine.

I think of them.

Who thinks of me?

I am the man under the tree.

 

I am the man under the tree.

What anguishes me, nothing.

What makes me laugh, nothing.

What do I believe?

What I want to believe.

I am the man under the tree.

 

I am the man under the tree.

Who says what, who cares?

Who does what, who minds?

The world goes on.

I go on.

I am the man under the tree.

 


This poem is dedicated to the man under the tree on the roadside near Kamla Nagar, New Delhi (along the wall of Institute of Economic Growth before reaching Hans Raj College Hostel Gate). He lives there. I saw him for the first time in 2008 when I came to Delhi for my studies and is still very much there. His home is the space under the tree that he keeps very clean. His place is more clean than a usual Indian house. He appears to be the most contented man I have ever seen. Despite his presence there, I think people hardly give a thought to this man. They may see him, but did they see him? I don’t know. Yet I truly believe that he has seen us and thought of us.
PS. Earlier published on my Facebook wall.
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