All for the Gold

The sound of drum beats came as a surprise. 

The compartment was pretty empty, about a dozen people or more; a few standing. And even they were a little surprised to hear the drums. When you travel in local trains for a considerable portion of your life (this includes both, First and Second class), sounds of drums usually equates to one very certain possibility: beggars.  

Well, quite certainly, it was a...child? They come in various sizes, you see. But this particular girl, all of 6 or 7 years, was a performer. And, yes, they come in various specializations, too; singers, dancers, performers and other kinds. 

In a swift motion, she somersaulted in the narrow passage-way; forward, then backward again. Then, twisting her arms, almost like she dislocated it (which I think, she probably did), she spun it around the entire length of her little, frail body; like a skipping rope (remember King Louis, from The Jungle Book?). If there weren't people sitting, she'd probably have done a horse bar, or parallel rings type of stunt-thingy, all in the moving train, mind you. Then of course, came the inevitable: alms. 

I honestly felt sorry for her. A girl of her age could probably put our national gymnastics team to shame, with only street-level training. 

And there she was, displaying her skills on a local train, begging for alms; where she could very well be India's next gold medalist. 

In the 1980s, when Mrs Indira Gandhi was the Prime Minister, the Sports Ministry came up with the idea of tapping into these talent pools of street performers, circus gymnasts and the likes. There would be benefits for them, training and, well, better chances for India in international events. It is a known fact that several East European nations, like Romania, enroll their children, particularly girls, into gymnastic schools as soon as they learn walking. The intensive training and hard work pays off; two golds in the Olympics and the family's future is more or less secure. 

Why did this initiative fail in India?

Come now, the answer is pretty darn obvious. The Associated Problems of Bureaucracy. I think it is extremely stupid that the bureaucracy has so much of a say in the field of sports. For one, how on earth can these guys possibly think that they can run the show, in sports? 

Forget transparency and accountability, is it too much to ask for a little decency? 

Knowing these guys, it probably amounts to more than the entire universe. That is why bribes suffice. And that is why only those who can pay them, rise to the visible level in national sporting, only to disappear because of lack of training (and in many cases, talent).

One solution is to privatize the sports sector. This is a possible option, especially after the CWG debacle, and the fact that our present athletes (not sports-persons, like cricketers and hockey players) receive pathetic training, poor allowances and no respect. 

I mean, the government would be only too happy to wash its hands off a responsibility; not that I mean this in negative sense. Skilled athletes would do the nation proud, wouldn't they? 

We, as spectators, would be happy; the young children, like the girl in the train, and their families would be happy, and well off, too. 

As for the bureaucrats, I'm pretty sure they'll find some other victim to fleece. Hm, they should make that into a sport, right? 

Then I'm sure, the gold will indeed be ours...!

Mathematics and Me

"on March 4th:MATH books burn"

This was a status a friend of mine had put up on Facebook, who, (obviously) is about to give her Board exams. 

I commented: "Did that after my 10th Boards...what a wonderful feeling!"

Yes, as you can possibly imagine and deduce, I am not particularly fond of maths. In fact, I have substantial evidence to prove that I am allergic to mathematical calculations. The symptoms include head-aches, body aches, and even memory loss (I tried explaining it to my parents once that, it was my reason for flunking a test; obviously they didn't buy it). 

The point is, there are certain things that come naturally to a student in the course of his or her academic life (or after); subjects that particularly interest them; or, as I like to say, subjects that do not interest them. This is more important than knowing what you like, I mean, at least that's one less potential life-ruining option!

When I was in the third standard, my uncle had a habit of making me learn my tables by heart. Yes, you heard that right, uncle. Even my parents weren't as concerned. No, this is not bad parenting; in fact, this should set a precedent for other parents in the world (you listening?!).

So, there I was, unwilling and as stubborn as a well...reluctant third grader, trying to know by tables by heart...if only to save my skin. 
"What will you do if the shopkeeper cheats you?" he used to ask. "You have to be aware of such things!" Now why would a shopkeeper want to cheat me in the first place? And, if that was to be the case, I could always use a calculator, couldn't I? (Though, at that stage I couldn't operate one. Still...!)
Considering the next instance I'm gonna talk about; I really don't blame my uncle for taking that extra bit of initiative. 

Rewind a year back: second standard. We've just started learning tables, and boy! it seems fun! The first thing I was taught was 2 times 2 is four! Oh, isn't that like 2 plus 2? Ah, then it's all a matter of tilting the sign! I was so intrigued by this exciting new avenue in mathematics (that was a time when I liked maths. Yes, how naïve of me…I was seven years old), and sat admiring this discovery of mine, while the rest of the class moved on to 10 times 10.

I heard the question, and a voice answered from somewhere: “Hundred!”

What an idiot! I stood up, looked at him, almost contemptuously and mockingly and said, loud and proud: “No! 10 times 10 is twenty!”

What more can I say…except that humiliating events such as this traumatize second graders. For life.

It was in the seventh grade that I tasted failure for the first time…in maths; I scored a fifteen on fifty. When a ‘scholarly’ student like me ‘fails’, even teachers get scandalized. My maths teacher was shocked, and genuinely concerned; especially after she saw me smiling. Yes, smiling. 
I think I should add temporary insanity to the list of allergies.

Fortunately, I ended my math ordeal by scoring excellently in my 10^th Boards (after which people wanted me take maths. Weirdos!) Before the 11th admission were announced, I was standing outside college, and happened to hear this gentleman talk to my dad. “Maths is very important, in every aspect of our lives; we cannot live without maths.”

I laughed in my mind. Yeah, right…! That’s why God invented something called the ‘Arts stream’.

Then, a few months later, in economics (which was a compulsory subject. Communists!), we had statistics…a synonym for, you guessed it right, mathematics.

Post-script: I intended to talk about this grandiose plan that me and some friends (others who'd flunked as well) had hatched: to build a time machine, go back in time, and kill the ones responsible for creating maths. The first on our list was Euclid, then was Pythagoras and err, was Archimedes a mathematician? 

Nonetheless, we sat brainstorming and calculated the odds of the mission being a success. Of course, the plan never materialized...we were bad at maths, weren't we?

By the Sea

Basking in the moonlight,

I see the sea, before me...

and the breeze, blowin',

the hair off my forehead...

and the leaves rustling, 

shifting, mid air...

sayin’, "yeah, we're there..."

Walkin' down the promenade,

a boulevard of flowers,

fragrances, nostalgic...

like the spring showers.

Crashin', thrashin',

the waves on the rocks...

I leave my footprints,

on the sand, without socks…

An empty bottle, hollow,

like there's no tomorrow...

A violent swig, a capsized brig,

on the sandy beach…

No, I ain't drunk..!

Only groovin' to the funk...

and all that this night has to offer...!

God's wonderful creation, 

the symphony

of a jazz composition..!

The rhythm and the blues,

the night and its hues...

Come, sing along with me,

‘cause, we're walkin' by the sea, yeah...

Princess and the Keeper

Hello folks,

This is a short-story I wrote for my creative writing assignment in English class...I was supposed to either analyse the lesson, or rewrite the story therein, in a character's perspective.
The essay we did in class is written by Tagore, "Once there was a King". My own story, picks off where Tagore's grandmother's story (in that particular essay) ends.

Hope it makes a good read!

Princess and the Keeper

A princess is someone I usually don’t see in the forest; especially at this hour of the night. Well, there she was, looking for someone, or something; frantic almost. She wasn’t quite dressed like a princess; for one, her royal gown, or whatever it is that these blue-blooded people wear, was replaced by a relatively austere night-gown; obviously too  extravagant for a night-gown, that is. Her dark hair was left open; it had no jewel-bands or ornaments. Her face carried an expression of defeat and desperation, like she’s lost some dear person, or was about to; very soon.

“Keeper of the Forest!” she cried, her voice was loud, but was stricken with grief and sadness. “Where are you, oh Keeper? I am in dire need of your aid!”

Oh! She was indeed looking for someone, and it was me! Royal folks are usually unheard of in this part of the world- the savage part. Yes, they do have their weird whims, like game hunting, for instance, which is rather problematic for someone like me. And, they are, in general, disdainful of the natural world.

This particular princess, however, had a dignified air around her, almost worth respecting. 


Ah, she was looking for me; I answered:

“Yes, Princess, fair and gentle!” My voice was as theatrical as I could make it; which is rather impressive, I must say! “I am the Keeper of the Forest! At my command are the beasts and birds! Speak swift, and state your purpose! You do not belong in this forest, at such dark hours!”

“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “I am in need of your aid, Keeper! Show yourself, and I shall state my purpose. But know this, I am grateful to you!”

Ah, women! Oh, well, it is impolite to keep a lady waiting…so, I said, “You need me, Princess, not the other way! Know your place, and you shall receive my aid!”

“Forgive me,” she said, weeping. Weeping?! “My husband is poisoned by a snake. He now lies cold and lifeless, on the threshold of death. Our best medicine men have failed to bring him back. It is in great desperation that I have braved the freezing night and the dangerous forest, to ask for you aid. The King shall shower all the wealth in the world on you! But please,” her voice overwhelmed by tears, “help me!”

Great! A damsel in distress! I jumped down from the tree and, in a whoosh, was behind her. Well, I confess, she was beautiful. From above I never noticed her eyes; a hazel tint. Her dark hair reflected the light of the stars. Her face was pale, probably from fear and worry, but was calm, like she knew what she was doing; determined and resilient: a quality unseen in most women of her social strata.

But why should I help her? Truth be told, I desired her; I wished to be in her company. To be in love, if I could dare say that. But look at my folly! A tramp like me with a princess like her!? Even in thoughts, the very thought is absurd! Well then, I had no choice but to help her.

“Fair enough, Princess,” I said, with an air of superiority, and strolled a bit. Theatricality, you see. “But I have my price; my expertise doesn’t come cheap! 10,000 gold coins will be my fee. If you agree to…”

“Yes, I agree to it!” she exclaimed, in an instance, her face radiated gladness. “Anything you ask for, the King shall give! Please come with me! We are in need of haste!”

“Come now!” I said, “We have no time to waste, no time to chit-chat! Alright, where is your, err, palace? Or is it a castle?

“West,” she said, “the Palace with Seven Wings. The Tower is where my husband is!”

Good Heavens! That building!? For 10,000 coins, anything is worth enduring!

I whistled for my transportation, and the Eagle came from his eyrie. “You summoned me?”

“Yes,” I said, like a captain would say to his lieutenant. “The Princess needs our help. Take us to the Palace with Seven Wings!”

“As you wish, Keeper.”

I mounted Eagle and taking the Princess’ hand, pulled her aboard. I quipped, “Hope you don’t get air sick!”

The Eagle beat his majestic wings, kicking a dust storm on the forest floor. Within moments we were airborne, en route to her palace.

“Tell me, Princess,” I asked, “the exact nature of events that led to the Prince’s predicament?”

She spoke, her voice now calm, and hopeful. “Long before I was born my father desired a son. So he retired to the Forest to practice austerities. Twelve years after I was born, he returned and both my parents decided that I had reached the age of marriage. My Father decided that the first person he’d see the next morning was to be my husband.”

“Princess,” I interrupted, politely, “not to be offensive, but I think that was rather, um, illogical.”

“Yes,” she sighed. “But it was my Father’s happiness that I longed to see; to obey his every word, like a son would.”

I remained quiet for a moment. “Please, continue.”

“That next morning he saw a Brahman boy and wed me to him. For six years, I took care of him, as a dutiful wife should. But he grew impatient. He wanted to know who I was. Three nights ago, I told him that he would know the answer tonight. Alas, as I entered our bed-chamber, I was horrified to see him lying on the bed, pale and lifeless, and a most vicious serpent coiled beside him, baring its fangs, hissing!” Her voice trembled as she spoke those words, fear creeping back to her mind, again.

I took a while to think. A serpent, black and vicious. I has to be Kobra-khai, I deduced; the renegade mercenary, an insult to the herpetological world.

“Don’t worry,” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder, for a brief moment. “I will do my best.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her hazel eyes were glistening with hope and faith; her dark hair, flowing in the wind.

Personally, I think that the Palace with Seven Wings was a wasteful building. But today it stood a proud structure, enveloped by an air of despair. All the Kings men and horses were awake, gazing toward the Forest, hoping for the Princess to come back.

“The Tower,” I said to Eagle, “The Prince is in there. Hurry!”

Beating his wings mid-air, Eagle swooped to the right in a single aerobatic motion. Talons forward, he gripped the stone rampart and came to a halt. “Good luck, Keeper,” he said.

“Thank you, Eagle,” I said, dismounting, rushing towards the bed-chamber. “Princess, please stay where you are!”

The windows were open and the candles extinguished. I saw the Prince lying on white satin sheets and rose petals, froth came out of his mouth, his eyes lifeless, and his skin pale. On the floor, I saw his murderer: Kobra-Khai.

“You’ve been up to no good, it seems, Kobra-Khai,” I said sternly.

“So, the pretty lady got you out of the Forest, after all,” he said, lecherously. “My, my…! Takes a lady to melt you heart!”

“Silence! Put an end to your venomous words, and be gone!” I said, taking a herb-plant out of my sack. “Go! You have caused enough grief! Slither away to your rat-hole, you expelled snake!”

Kobra-Khai disappeared from the chamber, defeated and humiliated. I turned my attention towards the Prince. Good Lord! He’s just a boy! And the Princess’ husband?!

“Get me warm water and honey, quick!” I instructed the chamber maid. “He has only a few minutes left.” From the corner of my eye, I could see the Princess standing with her Father; the King has become older than what he was when I last saw him in the Forest. Her Mother, too, stood beside her, grasping her hand. No, don’t look! The Prince, help him!

I crushed the herbs in my palm and mixed it with water and honey. The fang marks were clear on the Prince’s right arm. Applying the paste on the wound, I put the Elixir in his half-open mouth. That was all I could do.

Colour returned to the Prince’s skin, and there was a spark of life in his eyes. His chest rose and fell. “My Princess…” he gasped. The Princess ran to him and kissed him. The King and Queen followed. From the edge of the Tower I could see that the entire Palace had come to life; the men who were morose were now singing songs of joy.

“Good work, Keeper,” said Eagle. “You’ve done a noble deed.”

“Thank you for you kind words, Eagle.” I could say no more.

As I was about to mount Eagle, the Princess came to me, her eyes wet with tears and her face lightened with a smile; those hazel eyes were as beautiful as ever. “How can I thank you, Keeper!?”

“Keep your end of the bargain,” I said, coldly; unwillingly.

“Oh, yes!” She turned back, “Father, the 10,000 coins…” A knight brought a heavy bag and handed it to me. “Please stay back,” the Princess insisted. “Be our guest.”

“I have no use for your hospitality. I have one request, however: never, ever come looking for me. The Forest is a dangerous place. You get me?”

“Yes,” she answered, not understanding fully what I just said. Her eyes had a thousand questions; questions that I had no liberty to answer. She remained silent for a moment, and then said, “I am indebted to you, Keeper.”

“No, Princess,” I said, counting the coins, “We are settled. I saved you husband’s life, you honoured our agreement. It was a transaction, as simple as that.” 
And that was the greatest, and foulest lie I had ever uttered. Looking away, I said, “Back to the Forest, Eagle, we have a vicious snake to slay!”

“Yes, Keeper,” And turning toward the Princess, Eagle said to her: “Farewell, my lady!”

In mid-air, I thought I heard the Princess say: “I love you, Keeper…” But at such heights, the wind tends to get violent and one can hear things.

I never had to slay Kobra-Khai, the Prince’s personal guard did the honours. As for the Princess, some have said that she lives happily ever after with her Prince. While some others have speculated that after the near-death incident, the Prince left the palace and went back to being a humble Brahman, and the Princess spends her days on the Tower, gazing at the Forest.

What can I say? I mentioned that’s what people speculate; it’s not the truth, is it? Even if it was…well, what do I care!?

It’s just, after that fateful night, life has never been the same…ah well, look at my folly! A tramp like me with a princess like her!? Even in dreams the very thought is absurd!

The Village Fair

The Station Road usually remains calm, quiet and somewhat deserted for most of the day; filled with the sound of scattering feet and hushed (and sometimes, rather loud) voices during the morning and evening peak hours. Today, while walking down the very same road, I felt as though I'd taken a wrong turn. I looked around, past the crowds (teeming crowds, actually), and apparently, I was still at the Station road; the annual 'jatra' or fair has started, and as it has been for so many years, it is always set up at the Station road.

The earliest memories I have of the 'jatra' are the ones when I was about seven or eight years old. The 'jatra', or as we preferred calling it 'mela', translated into excitement; we were excited to ride on the carousels, the toy-train, the 'Dragon Boat', a host of other rattly rides, and cheap toys, of course, were a perennial attraction. A personal favourite of our's (me and my brothers) was the shooting arena. 'Arena' here is a very sophisticated term; in actuality, it was a small stall/kiosk, with many balloons stuck on canvas, and a rattly air-soft rifle to shoot with. When the target's three feet away, and when there's so many of them, accuracy is rather inevitable. But for my seven year old self, hitting a 'bullseye' within three shots (for five rupees, each) was quite an achievement.

Well, now in the present, the 'mela' still retained it's nostalgic charm; replete with the shooting 'arena', and many other small little shops, stalls, kiosks etc. I was here, neither with the intention of visiting the fair, nor for reliving the past; I had some important work. What it was, I'd forgotten for the full minute I stood there, just looking around; the colours, the noise, the voices...
"Three chances for ten rupees!"
"Necklaces! Bangles! And all kinds of jewelry! Starts at rupees thirty!"
"Come, see the Magic Show! Tickets for twenty rupees!"
Oh, things have become expensive. But, like always, the fair managed to remain affordable to the common-man.

Another voice distracted my attention; it was a woman's and I'm pretty sure it was a Marathi swear word...something about a pick-pocket. Instinctively, my hand reached my back pocket; yes, it had a bulge; the wallet is safe. Oh, damn, I might have to keep walking this way.
So what? One can't be too safe these days, can he?
Whether it's the streets of Brugges, or the subway in New York or London, or a fair in some obscure Indian village, there are several 'cultural universals'; the way people behave in groups, religion, faith, prayer, and yes, as this case illustrates, pick-pockets, too.

While walking in a 'mela', it is nigh impossible to resist the temptation of the variety of food on display; from hot, crispy bhajiyas, vada-pavs, to fresh jalebis and many, many other sweet-meats, of various sizes, shapes, colours...and names I haven't even heard of! I vaguely remember tasting some as a child, that too after my dad convinced me that it was good; in spite of the skepticism, I think I'd enjoyed eating them. Though I confess, I'm not too sure now; maybe, if my dad convinces me again; or if I manage to learn what sweet is what.

As the sunlight faded, the artificial lights lit up the streets, the noise got louder, and the streets got worse, with the public spilling out on the roads, (well, whatever was left of it for motorists to use); Bollywood, it seems, never loses its charm. Somewhere, I heard a Hannah Montana song playing; after a closer look (yes, I was just curious) I realized it's a jingle from some kind of a guitar toy; pink, of course. Also, I could see lots of Spider-man stuff,  Ben-10 and Transform-Robots. I won't say that I was cynically amused, because I wasn't; it's just that, globalization has reached well beyond the proverbial shores...and, I for one, am not really complaining.

On my way back (unfortunately, the work I set out for remained unaccomplished) I noticed a lady, presumably on what seemed like a tattoo stall (it was actually a plastic sheet she was sitting on, with xerox copies of many designs, and a tattoo machine). She looked at me, flexed her flabby, wrinkled biceps and pointed at one of the photos; a dragon, I think it was. I smiled, shook my head, and resumed walking.
From the sky-walk, I could see the carousels, the giant wheel and the 'Dragon Boat.' I felt a slight pat on my shoulder; in my mind, almost subconsciously, I heard a woman swearing in Marathi...'pick-pocket'. I felt the bulge in my back pocket; yes, wallet's still there.
One can't be too careful these days, can he?

The Noble Profession

The classrooms across the city and many of its suburbs are set to wear a deserted look. The children, for one, aren't really complaining. Their teachers, on the other hand, are; not complaining, exactly, but are voicing their concerns over the impending census duty. And, they have every right to protest this "national duty", as I shall discuss it in detail in this essay.

For those who're unaware (yes, I believe there are quite a few), the Census of India takes place every 10 years, to not only gauge the increase in the total population, but to also note the changes in the standard of living, birth rate, family patterns etc. And to carry out this mammoth task, the Government of India and the Census Board delegates this work to the local municipal bodies--in over six hundred districts throughout the country--who in turn employ, or rather enlist the services of civic employees, school teachers etc.

So far so good, right? I mean, this is a duty of national significance and not to mention, of great magnitude. And it is the job of government employees to aid the Government in any such undertaking. This is precisely where the authorities make a mistake.

Enlisting civic body employees is not restricted to a handful of them, being sent to every god-forsaken corner of their respective wards; it usually requires a great percentage of the work force to engage in enumeration, often as high as 60-70% of a municipality's full workforce. To add to it, the teachers, in both aided and non-aided schools are roped in for enumeration. This is not the first instance where teachers are compulsorily roped in for such activities--election duty during the Lok Sabha, State elections as well as the municipality are extremely common, and are, at times, carried out for three years in succession. 

So, who bears the brunt of these "national duties"? The students? Yes, of course; but they're not complaining. Nor are they directly facing any of these hardships, other than perhaps a significant delay in the completion of their syllabus. It's the teachers who're directly, and most affected by such "duties". 

In any democratic nation, people's participation in such processes strengthens democracy, firstly; and then, the people as responsible citizens. But, by what right does a democratic nation 'compel' its people to perform such duties? The very fact of the country being a 'democracy', and the 'compulsion' it has on its people is a paradox. But for the government, these duties are 'justified', as they do not consider 'teaching' a valuable profession; all this as India is on the threshold of implementing much-needed reforms in education, including the Right to Education. 

The potential of any nation is calculated by the quality of its youth, more so, the students, especially in primary and secondary school. And the quality of these crucial school years is directly related to the quality of teaching. The point is: reforms in the education sector are incomplete without key policies affecting teachers' well-being. Many, like the government, are of the opinion that teaching is not a challenging, or a productive profession. Such misguided, and callous, remarks sadly illustrate the real 'illiteracy' prevalent in India. 

With extracurricular duties, like Census enumeration and election duty, both private and public schools teachers are diverted from their school duties, and are even threatened with heavy fines and possible incarceration. The teaching force, thus is stressed from both ends; on one side, they have their official responsibilities in schools, catering to over 60-70 children in each class, along with examinations; on another side, they're coerced into doing these 'national duties'- often during the academic year or even the vacation--whatever little they get. 

I have seen first hand what many teachers (and other enumerators) have to go through, each having to visit about 140-150 households; in one area if lucky, or worse, spread out. Then, there's the language barrier. It's funny how a 'national duty' has its forms printed in the regional language, and requests for these forms in English, or even in Hindi, is laughed off like a humourless joke. To add to their woes, the public who're being enumerated have absolutely no clue about the dates of birth of their spouses, parents etc. and are often very hostile and uncooperative. Even worse is that teachers are paid a pittance, if they're paid at all, that is.

All in the name of national duty.

What I fail to understand is: why doesn't the government employ people, who are currently unemployed, registered in the Employment Exchanges, and, in many cases, are adequately qualified. I often resort to cynicism because of such stark paradoxes: a group of professionals being overburdened, unnecessarily while another group stays unemployed. This is democratic India, I suppose. 

One might say I'm motivated by a personal agenda; my mother's a teacher in a local private school. To that, I say: yes, I am. I know what a teacher has to go through even in regular academic years. Added to that are these duties, and of course, lack of motivation and proper work conditions are a constant issue.

So, is there a solution to this? As always, there is a solution. All that the government and administrative bodies/agencies need is a little creativity, some sensitivity and most importantly, the political will to implement reforms meaningfully for them to make maximum impact. 

Until then, I guess, teaching will remain the "noble" profession that it always has been, in this great nation of ours.

A Pocket Full of Pennies

From the rattly ‘ol ferry,

rollin’, pitchin’ in the sea,

being thrown off balance,

he stood in awe,

beholdin’ the sight of the City.

Made of dreams, thoughts, 

and ideas, so bold;

Built by the labour, blood

and sweat of a great too many;

Cast in shafts of concrete, steel,

and glass;

Spread out, uneven,

a jagged, geometric skyline,

silhouetted dark,

against the settin’ sunlight.

Lightin’ up, after dusk,

are lil’ sparks,

of incandescent light bulbs,

and fluorescent, too;

A thousand yellow-blue eyes staring,

cold, yet comforting.

A place, where,

a pauper could dream,

of being a prince;

Yes, oaths he’d have to make,

inked in blood, toiling in sweat;

Revering the grandeur of the City,

only to break,

or make himself, into what he wishes to be.

Yes.

That day would come;

But today, on this rattly ‘ol ferry,

his heart is filled,

with the weight of dreams;

though his pocket's filled with just pennies.