Little Martha and freshly peeled mangoes

When people get loved a lot by a lot of people,

They do not appreciate love of little people.

There was once little Martha, living in shanties across the road

She had a heart of a bud and smile of a rose.

She would love her Missus, who would send her on errands

And she would also love her complaints of no one loving her any same.

Her Missus would tell her, “Nobody cares for me, nobody peels me mangoes. While I work like a horse the whole day around the household.”

When one day Missus had her foot aching by the night,

Little Martha sat creaming her ankles supple and bright

Missus was also a quick hand with colors and sketch

While Martha would quietly sit watching like an invisible friend.

Missus children would make her scream to no end,

And Martha with her patience would put them to bed.

Then one day, some milk spelt, and Missus anger could not contain

She thrashed Martha for being careless and having gotten no brain.

Then one day Missus daughter had her fingers stuck in door

As Martha was carrying her across the shop floor.

Missus would not talk to Martha for days on end

She told her to never ever show her, her dirty face again.

Martha then would spend her day in her shanty across the road

She refused to befriend any other Missus of big Bungalow.

One day frustrated little Martha decided to make amends,

She thought of giving Missus a gift and be her coveted friend.

Martha walked for long to meet her Missus of the Bungalow

With a small packet rapped underneath her elbow.

Left, right, left, Martha walked in clear throws till she reached the big door

Martha knocked again and again

only to hear her hallows dead end.

“The Missus has left town,” a frail lady tapped on Martha’s posterior.

“When did this happen?” cried Little Martha to herself angrier.

“The family left in the car, some days ago,” the old lady supplied.

Martha sat on the doorstep numb and wide,

With big droplets falling on her broken pinafore

Little Martha could not face the morning anymore.

Hours swept by, and Martha said nothing of repute

To the sinking sun, Martha woke equally guileless and in cahoots

She began trudging to her shanties across the fir tree rows,

Walking bare hand, she was attuned to the roosting crows

And she left to the doorstep’s swarm of flies, her parcel of pungent, peeled mangoes.

“When people get loved a lot by a lot of people,

They do not appreciate love they receive from little people,” Martha spoke to an audience of full.

It was twenty year hence, in a book reading room.

Not on the doorstep, instead onstage

She stood waiting on her audience’s questioning gaze

A little girl sprung up from the crowd to wave her a ‘hi’

She had her forefingers clipped and Martha asked why?

“A wound from the childhood,” the girl replied.

Something stirred within Martha’s big frame

She looked closely at the girl and asked her again,

“Where is your mother?” Martha was slow and soft

The girl thought she heard the writer’s throat clog

“My mother is out of town, but I am sure she would like your book. She too loves peeled mangoes, and I am not the one to cook.”

“Thank you,” Martha smiled, and passed her a read.

The teenager gave thanks and hopped back to her seat.

The evening closed, and ‘little Martha’ was now ‘big’,

She walked the night’s deserted gallows lone and free,

Attuned to the roosting crows, and the returning bees,

Big Martha could see in the twilight’s throw of light, her freshly peeled mangoes spurting fresh to her eyes.