THE GREAT walks with the Small without fear.
The Middling keep aloof.

DEAD LEAVES when they lose themselves in soil
take part in the life of die forest.

AN OLDISH upcountry man tall and lean,
with shaven shrunken cheeks like wilted fruits,
jogging along the road to the market town
in his patched up pair of country-made shoes
and a short tunic made of printed chintz,
a frayed umbrella tilted over his head,
a bamboo stick under his armpit.
It is a sultry morning of August,
the light is vague filtering through thin white clouds.
The last night seemed smothered
under a damp black blanket:
and today a sluggish wind
is fitfully stirring a dubious response
among amlaki leaves.
The stranger passed by the hazy skyline of my mind,
a mere person,
with no definition, no care that may trouble him,
no needs for any the least thing.
And I appeared to him for a moment
at the farthest limit of the unclaimed land of his life,
in the grey mist that separates one
from all relations.
I imagine he has his cow in his stall,
a parrot in the cage,
his wife with bangles round her arms,
grinding wheat,
the washerman for his neighbour,
the grocer's shop across the lane,
a harassing debt to the man from Peshawar,
and somewhere my own indistinct self
only as a passing person.