By MAHEN PURBHOO 
A kid’s face blackened with polish kept imploring:
Your shoes will shine, Sir, let me do the polishing!
I stifled my compassion by feigning busy.
I scorned the amputated toddler’s plea.
The amputee’s image still lingers at Place D’Armes,
Reminiscent of Port Louis’ singularly plural charms.
He could remember speedy clients’ face
By a cursory look at their shoelace!
Sir, for only five Rupees
Let me do it, please!
I strutted about like a learned sot.
And I strode along avoiding the tiny tot.
The supplicating hails of the teenager fell on deaf ears.
On his pedestal even Mahe de Labourdonnais was moved to tears.
That poignant gaze that transfixed the indifference in me
Continues, even after a decade, to haunt me the infamy!
Feeling repentant, I looked back and flicked a coin.
It wobbled, rolled and tumbled near his groin.
The bruised reaction was unexpected.
It fell with a thud on my bald head.
The reply was laconic but devoid of insolence.
It came with a smile with all its reverence:
Sir, I strive to earn with the palms!
I am sorry: I do not need alms.
For goodness’ sake don’t ever show pity
Please find ability in my disability!
I never felt so confused and mortified.
Down, the emaciated shoeshiner sat dignified.
He clutched my pant’s cuff almost snivelling
Groping for words but not bemoaning.
The distressed eyes were sunk deep in their sockets.
They yearned to earn honourably for the pockets.
How many such amputees are devoid of childhood?
How long do they languish to earn a decent livelihood?
Palms are outstretched to earn a pittance.
They vainly strive for a mineral existence.
Like me, how many ignore their plight?
We immure ourselves and turn allergic outright.
We devour our conscience
And walk away in total indifference.
Unmindful of our brothers’ tears and sorrow
We hardly care for their morrow.
Even today, my mind and body still stink
When those famished eyes chase me to the brink.