i see smart sharp suits. immaculate hair, frowns done artfully. briefcases in hand, eyes forward. only a straight path where money and power lies. luxury and wealth. round-the-clock work and more to come. an ant in the giant nest of corporation. like the smiling robots in billboard. successful, happy, unmoved.
i see them slouched, papercups in hand. asking for that penny or two that would never leave your handbag anyway. the same clothes day and again. with a dog, a leg missing, hungry eyes, loyal to death. lying under old blankets, inside broken guitar cases, the warm glow of a lonely beggars’ life.
standing across waterloo, a fine sunny day. bustling office workers. loosen ties, hands reaching for beer. another day gone, another day same, the difference is the sun.
beggars having a conference in a garden. dogs paying tags, roaming and chasing. bunsen burner cooking little bits of what they could buy to share. laughing. shaking heads at unsold bundles of big issue.
a man with a cloth laid in front of him, begging for change outside the tube station, reading a tattered copy of Shakespeare.
an old punk, with battered leather jacket, kneeling in the grass listening to an old radio with grief etched his leathered cheek. he doesn’t beg. he looks over his friends’ dogs while they do. i wonder if he had the chance of a lifetime, destroyed.
a woman crying. old, white, haggard. punk-ish and harsh. wanted to kill herself by jumping on the train tracks. kept saying they had her baby.
the man who said i had the most beautiful smile.
euston station, with its common black cabs and common drivers. bland grey sky, hidden sun. a stark contrast to the arab prince hailing a cab for his family, ignored. veiled women, crying babies. a handsome man in suit. and a gold jeweled dagger tucked neatly behind his coat. glimmering ancient secrets of exotic faraway kingdom in this cold land.
i met monika selling big issue. i thought she looked like a lady i met on the train before. i might be mistaken. or i might not be. she looked haggard like how a beggar looks like. sullen skin, two golden teeth, tired eyes. she’s 17. with a one month fetus in her stomach. and another two hungry young ones homeless in edmonton. and another one of her dead sister’s offspring. a husband, a year older, selling the same thing. no shelter, living by the street, babies crawling where rats do.
she has very beautiful eyes. romanian, and would never want to return there.
i met shaira at bayswater. extremely pretty with a beautiful child. living in a caravan, another 2 children waiting to be fed. a muslim refugee from kosovo. 19 years old. she must have been a baby when her parents brought her here to glory land. a broken promise, a message sent.
muslim aid available at whitechapel. you need to write your stories, fill application letter, post it to them and wait for reply. first, you need to know help exist. second, get a permanent home address. third, afford pen, paper, envelope and stamp. fourth, walk into post office amidst staring public and hope to get a reply within two months. for real.
i am as hopeless as they are. money flows everywhere. just not to them. May Allah SWT bless their heart and soul. And May He gives them the true rich and wealth in Jannah. For that is the ultimate end. and the ultimate pursuit for happiness.
i saw a great white dog, slightly bigger than a big goat. an old man in russian fur hat and moleskin boots. standing tall and sharp like a soldier. looking at an ancient tree. sitting on the news stand. lost. waiting. a time tunnel must be open tonight. i look at my watch. it says : 13 o’clock.