Every day I walked to see the holy man
Cheeks quite chubby, beard not very long,
And a green turban on his head.
Holding a school bag over his shoulder
Months after I met him
I got to know the secret of inside.
Well, nothing to hide, ‘tis a bag full of pens collected.
Don’t know what part the pens play.
And a piggy bank to collect money.
His timings are unscheduled,
Around noon or an hour before he
Comes out of his house which he calls
His sisters residence, and walks till night
And finds a place to sit until the call of birds.
As he talks it seems like the words of a Puerile.
But the matured old man is aware
Of everything, even if it is concealed
Or surreptitious, understood by chosen few.
He murmurs to his self, but not in one’s reach.
But thru his strange language he speaks
The point of the compass.
Which may be advantageous and remedial.
Each word of the sage goes no extra.
If our brains are pointed enough to comprehend.
We would see no sorrow but a bright aftertime.
He preaches no religion but humanity.
The mystical man is aware of the material world
Yet considers it not, the patience he bears.
Though he is near not, I feel him near
Everywhere I walk, he is in my sense
The one for illumination I rely on
He knows the self; he’s seen the skies,
He is aware of morrow; he knows the past.
He is in everything, every speech,
He is my preceptor and I’m his disciple.