The madman

Intense, hassled and busy
The madman directs the traffic
Near the city hospital
All day, all night, all alone.
Chiding the rickshaw puller
Glaring at the erring taxi
Ignoring the abuses and the laughter
Of children, he stands alert.
In tattered ancient clothes, he stands
With wounds and layers of dirt
That covers his body. For years,
The madman has not left his post.
His sense of self importance
His conviction, his dedication
Sometimes makes me wonder
About sanity.
The world of the madman is no less real,
His work no less important to him.
His world clashes with mine
As I cross the city hospital, every day.
Who is to say what he thinks
Of all those rushing about him, angrily,
Blankly – day and night, every day
For no apparent reason whatsoever?
Who is to say, how sane we look
To the insane, the dervishes, the sufi saints?
Who is to say, how our sanity measures
On their scale?

About Abhishek

I will let the blog speak for itself...or, at times, for me. View all posts by Abhishek

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