The Doctor’s Call

I may look ordinary,

Lean, grey bearded

And balding at the temples;

I wear weather worn and loose leather chappals,

I roll up my pants on the road and

Still step in the sludge

Clumsily

And I snort and pause to examine

The splash on my suitcase;

I may board an ordinary train

Towards an ordinary town

Among a marred mix of ordinary races;

I may then be sipping tea

From an ordinary vendor,

Calling out to him

With a squeaky voice,

Exhausted after the ordinary work

Of dragging my baggage behind me;

Yet for all this ordinarily lived life of mine

There is but one little mercy –

My bygone years summed up to embrace a

Profession

Called the saviour’s acolyte;

Now I wake up to this call after every nap

Refreshed by the sole thought

That this day will be more merciful

Than the previous one.