I think I was five, when they told me about a unicorn –
I sat atop a waste-covered rock, drooping and forlorn,
With hollow pits of hunger piercing through my being,
I looked up at the sky – my only known ceiling.

They say that unicorns have magic on their wings,
Magic that can make clouds dance and sing!
However, for me, the clouds only weep –
Through piles of glass and stone, I slowly sweep

Conversations about magic leave me bewildered –
Somersaulting clouds! Singing unicorns! Leave me flustered,
As I set out to pick rags, and clean traffic-covered streets,
With anxiety and worry, I am suddenly replete.

In the evening, my mother cleans rich people’s railings –
She is sixty-seven now, old and ailing!
I try my best to make her life easy
Seeing her struggle and strive, makes me sick and queasy!

I wish I could get her the Badi Memsahab’s mop,
To the ground, no longer she will have to drop!
However, the money I make goes towards food
Towards clothes and shoes, no matter how crude.

Today, as I push through the plastic and steel
Through piles of vegetable peel, as slippery as a seal,
I come across a partly bent pink-coloured wiper,
As bright as a rainbow, as sharp as a sniper!

Filled with joy, I bend down and pick up the tool
Without realizing it, I have broken: The Ragpicker’s Rule,
Every object we find must be sent for recycling
Plastic becomes tires used for bicycling.

This evening, I decide to take the mop home
As the sun sets behind the temple’s golden dome,
My mother approaches the object with great trepidation,
Cradling it as thought it is her greatest aspiration

There are stars in her eyes, and joy between her fingers,
Between the wrinkles on her face, the glow of joy lingers,
This is magic! I realize! This is my unicorn
This essence of joy, my mother’s struggles are gone!