Radhe Ka Pappu

I thought cross conncetions were a thing of the past,
and was rather unplesantly surprised on tuesday last,
when someone rang my mobile number,
wondering if I was not Pappu the plumber.

Myself Mr. Natwarlal, did you not know?
Thundered I, you cad, you *** now off you go,
I plumb the depths of human past, and read rusty files,
It's not for me to repair sick taps and scoop out slimy tiles.

The poor chap spoke in rustic Hindi and mumbled
something about him being Radhe the childhood friend,
I, the city slicker, paid him no heed, for stumbled
was my work in the middle, with too much to attend.

Later in the evening, from nowhere, radhe's vioce got hold
of my leisure, as if I was listening to appeals untold,
of a friend who's missing someone very close
and wants to talk to him, to chat, to propose....

That they become friends again as before,
that the distance that separates them,
melt with their warm hearts coming ashore,
that together they ignite tomorrow's flame.

Too naive, jerked I back to my senses, too maudlin,
Who's to account for the lost threads, the struggle, the din
of the city that Pappu would have survived alone, unaided?
Is he still around, his tender feelings not yet fully dead?

Who am I to judge? Radhe? Pappu? or both?
Ask I to myself, taking yet another oath,
not ever to play a role of someone else in vein
and cause myself some more avoidable pain, not again.