An Unfortunate Singh

 This is about a Singh you and I both know

the one who resides in between towers and shoplots

grey in essence

and wears an invisible torn cape

This Singh wears many faces; none of them false

one shines brightest,  and worn most often; a sewadar

a man so steeped in Sikh and Punjabi

that he was once called a putte

Another is the filial son

self-scarifying

the care-taker

the youngest who worries from night to dawn

the shoulder his whole family sits on

And oh, I should mention the face he wears for his brotherhood

assigned to run here and there for he never runs out of breath

turning mountains into personal collections

an explorer, never needing permission

quite the macho man

And then, there is the man that she met

the one who could make a conversation linger

generous with praise, humour and restricted intimacy

a flirt when it gives him joy

high on the sweetness of being wanted

The face he wears with her is wrinkled

of worries, anger, frustrations and longing

she soothes them all tenderly

careful to not bruise him further

Yet,

 for all the faces this Singh has mastered

the one that mattered most seemed to escape him

for there stood a woman worth every version of him

and he, somehow fumbled her

quite spectacularly.

Oh poor unfortunate Singh!

no empty pockets

no shortage of admirers

but riddled with a simple misfortune

a remarkable woman loved him

and the fool let vines of comfort creep around his feet

until standing still felt easier than choosing her