The Taxi Driver - Poem

He sat on the front seat
As pleasant as if he is singing a melody
In his white and orange car
It passed round and round
In the flowery November streets of Doha
He is in his twenty forth
For me his name is Aslam,
For reasons before centuries
For my son he said ‘Acha’- very good
For my two year old daughter he said Acha – very good
At twenty eight they marry at Bangladesh
His MamBap told to do so
(His old Bap and weaving Mam)
“Shadi ke baad me nahee ayega”
After my marriage I won’t come
(His fair angel bride and small cherubs on coming years
On the banks of flood)
No no no Aslam, don’t come shadi ke baad
For my three and half riyals
No money, you are my “Sishter”
The cord of love
From far east Bangladesh
To the cost of Kerala
I heard the sobs of my mother