The Boozer Poem by Rajendra Prasad Meena Jaipur India

Every evening begins with the same soft plea,
'Papa, when will you come home to me? '
Small eyes fixed on the doorway,
hope and hunger waiting the same way.

The wife counts hours by the flickering flame,
not the grains of rice, but the weight of his name.
She whispers to shadows along the walls,
asking them to carry her prayers through the halls.

He does not come—
the liquor shop calls him home.
Its neon lights dance like fireflies,
leading him into streets where illusions roam.

Each morning, he folds his hands,
'I'll change today, I understand.'
But near the shop, his courage breaks,
temptation laughs, and his promise shakes.

Friends gather, the glasses glow,
he pours, he drinks, the bottles grow.
Soon the road becomes a river of light,
and the moon bends down to watch his plight.

He sings in drunken, broken tunes,
while shadows twirl beneath the silver moon.
People glance, yet see only smoke,
passing through dreams that he evokes.

In his home, milk boils into clouds,
while liquor waits like guards in shrouds.
Shoes shine like polished mirrors,
books float, whispering forgotten errors.

Drunk he may be, yet he never tires,
but his earnings vanish, life expires.
The wife struggles, children wait,
bearing hunger, fear, and fate.

One man falls in public shame,
but his family carries the blame.
Dogs sniff, drains flow like molten streams,
he slips, he falls into surreal dreams.

People mock or hum a haunting song,
but he drifts where reality feels wrong.
Alcohol kills more than the liver,
it steals worlds, making hearts quiver.

One man lost in the intoxicated blur,
while his family lives the magical horror.
The Boozer sleeps on the public stone,
but grief and love are never alone.

Walls breathe, lamps whisper in the night,
telling tales of sorrow and fractured light.
This is no tale of a nation's truth,
but of one family, trapped by youth.

Where love waits, and hope is tested,
and every day, a strange dream is manifested.