It hurts

Walking around with eyes open, I am constantly reminded of what Faiz Ahmed Faiz had once said,

'Aur bhi dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke siva,

Raahaten aur bhi hain vasl ki raahat ke siva.'

It hurts
 
It hurts
To see a young Rickshaw-puller's palms smeared with blood,
As he holds the note with fingertips to keep it clean,
To spend it later at the local beer shop located at the corner of the road.

It hurts
When the fruit seller shoos off the old lady with choicest curses,
For begging for a single discarded rotten apple from his tray,
For her sick little grandson for the lack of money.

It hurts
To see the uncovered, month-old infants of the labourer women,
Peacefully resting on jagged sheets of cloth on the heaps of sand,
In the scorching summers and the freezing winters.

It hurts,
To get the broadest grin of gratefulness from the urchin with tangled hair,
On handing him a box of sweets filled with ants a week after Diwali,
Which he shares generously with his big famished family soon after.

It hurts,
When the ten year old skinny helper boy of the fat shopkeeper,
Carries the can filled with water weighing just a little less than him,
To my second floor flat and rushes back happily humming a tune.

It hurts...