Monsoon Bumper - Blessing

 

In rain-washed lanes where silence weeps,

A child once crawled where sorrow sleeps.
Polio’s grip — a cruel embrace,
Twisted his limbs, erased his grace.
Yet hope, like monsoon’s silver thread,
Wove quiet dreams where angels tread.

His mother lay in fevered grace,
A ghost of warmth upon her face.
Each breath a whisper, thin and bare,
A lullaby of silent prayer.
Her eyes, two lamps about to die,
Still searched the dark for morning sky.

His father pedaled rust and dust,
A wheezing wheel, a daily trust.
He sold mere dreams in paper form,
Through sun and storm, through cold and warm.
Each click of spoke, a muted song —
Of hunger stretched a lifetime long.

Then came the night — no more return,
No flame, no footstep, just an urn.
The father lost to screech and steel,
His death too numb for grief to feel.
The mother followed — breathless, pale,
Her final sigh, a broken sail.

Now silence ruled that shattered dome,
No bread, no fire, no voice, no home.
Only the rain to softly pound,
That lonely hut with ghostly sound.
No cradle song, no hands to hold,
Just echoes turning young to old.

Yet still he crawled through muddy street,
With ragged will and blistered feet.
His words, like autumn leaves, fell low:
“Buy hope... buy dreams... before they go.”
But pity passed him, dry and blind,
No eyes to meet his aching mind.

Until one dusk, through mist and grime,
A scrap of fate — misplaced by time.
A ticket lost, in gutter deep,
Still clutching numbers dreams might keep.
A threadbare prayer with muddy skin,
Could this be where new life begins?

He held it close, his hands a prayer,
The rain now hushed, the night turned fair.
Each number drawn, the screen aglow —
A gasp, a cry, a holy flow.
The numbers danced — each one aligned,
Five crores! The heavens had signed.

But joy, unshared, became a chain,
The weight of gold, the ghost of pain.
“Whose luck is this? Whose dream did fall?
Did I just steal a stranger’s call?”

Then came a voice, soft-spoken, slow,
A cane that tapped the earth below.
She stood — a figure clothed in night,
Yet in her heart, a brilliant light.
“I lost that ticket,” said the blind,
“But what you found, was fate — not mine.”

“No wrath I bring, no envy’s flame,
Your joy is mine — we share the same.
The world once turned its face from me,
But now I see — through you — I see.”

And in that hush, a bond was born,
Of two torn souls the world had worn.
They shared not sight, nor steady limb,
But love rewrote their every hymn.
His laughter rose — a hymn to skies,
Where once were tears, now phoenix flies.

No longer crawling, not alone,
He’d built from pain a brighter home.
Their lives, once frayed and full of ache,
Now sang of healing, bold and awake.

The richest win is not of gold,
But hearts that choose to break — and hold.
From shattered lives, new stars arise —
Love is the prize that never dies.