King Of The Village Poem by Nikhil Parekh

He had moustache to be proud of,
earlobes pierced with circular rings of brass,
wound a gaudy turban on his scalp,
wore frilled cloth clinging tautly to his skinny frame,
clasped an iron bludgeon for self defense,
chopped tree wood with thick blades of stainless steel,
climbed bare walls of brick with large urban feet,
took bath in monsoon ponds of muddy water,
adroitly lit roaring fires with bundles of dead sea weed,
relied on changing positions of the Sun for an update on time,
showered fruit and petal on daintily sculptured feet of the deity,
guffawed whole heartedly at mindless chatter prevalent in village,
coated walls of his mud baked hut with pure cowdung plaster,
hurtled a volley of loud abuse at son for skipping school,
milked the cow to professional perfection,
wore a jugglery of threads sewn with superstition,
uttered inaudible phrases in broken English,
guiding overseas tourist through dilapidated walls of the castle,
being the solitary source of monthly wages,
was a thorough blend of impetuousness and rural flamboyance,
his dreams had never crossed territories of his village,
with reflections of unexplored charisma lurking in his eyes,
he proclaimed loud with dignity to be the king of the village.