The Toll

The car screeches
A sudden halt
the Toll needs to be paid.
The ten rupee note passes
from the drivers hand
into another.

An unnamed, faceless hand
mechanically stretched
from a hole in the wall
to offer a ticket in exchange.

Who is the owner of the hand?
What does he live for?
What kind of family does he have?
What does he do,
When he is not here?
Does he like his job?

Don't ask me
I only saw his hand.
But if you want
I can paint a picture grand.

In this world
He is Narayana
He is the caretaker
of the Land of Toll gates
No one passes, not a single one
without an appropriate offering.

The picture ends, for now I hear
The bell telling me to move on
It tolls not for me,
But the cistern, that holds me.