Just in Search of a Story..

The merchant of dreams,
From the hills of Kabul,
Wanders by the terrains, forests, and rivers,
Like a vagabond!

He is empty handed,
No house for him,
No shelter, no one knows him.
In this grand city of Joy!

Just a stranger to
The Indifferent Universe he was,
None to love,
None to hate!

Just he has a bag
Hanging from his shoulder,
A bag filled with dreams!
Sells he the dreams,
To children, men and women!
Since ages he did the same –
That was his profession!
He was a merchant of dreams.

Many great men had written about him,
Since ages long by!
The one that comes to my mind,
Is Tagore’s rendition of “Kabuliwala”!

Had he a little daughter – Rukhsana!
Left he her in Kabul, when she was just 2.
For the call of his work,
His profession of selling dreams to the world!
Many dreams he sold,
Helping mortals many,
In their journey of life!

Today Rukhsana was 20,
No news had he from her,
Nor his family, or his people.
He posted the money order
As usual to the same address.
This time, he decided to send some more,
Thought he - might be it was her wedding month!

He was a fakir,
Singing the tunes of the Spirit,
On the railway platforms,
Or the crowded streets of Kolkata!
Some people despised him,
Some came for newer dreams,
Some blessed him,
Some hated him giving despised look.

He kept singing his tune,
Several songs of the Spirit had he,
With new tunes and words!
Kept he selling dreams to people who came!

But today no song had he in his lips,
The tunes were too dried up!
Took out from his rags an old tattered paper,
Imprinted on it was a little hand of his baby Rukhsana!
When she was just 2.
He was missing his daughter!

“Ali!!”, he shouted.
Wanted he a new story,
A new dream, a new song!
This time for none –
But just for himself –
Only for himself.

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