The Basket Man

*Writer's note: The Basket Man was a real character in my life, although for the poem, I embellished some details. His friendship towards me as a lonely & lost little girl inspired a life-long love of basket collecting*

I met The Basket Man when I was ten
I was a scrawny tomboy way back then.
Basket Man wove baskets of reeds from the creek
He made a meagre living peddling the street.

I had been scouring the creek for gold
Plunging hands into water that was icy cold
Overturning rocks that sparkled under clear water
The sun was at its zenith, it couldn’t be hotter.

The Basket Man squatted on the rocky creek bed.
A tree shaded him from the hot sun overhead
His brown leathery fingers deftly wove the reeds
Fine craftsmanship was his motto, his creed.

Basket Man smiled a toothless -but not unpleasant- smile
I sensed that during his life, he’s walked many-a-mile
His brown face was a roadmap of wrinkles
Regarding me curiously, his eyes twinkled.

I noticed Basket Man's pants were clean but torn
How he had failed to comb his black tufted hair that morn
His fingernails needed trimming but were clean
I dared not say so as that would be mean.

My brown eyes met his gaze, and in a voice a little shy
I managed to squeak out a quiet “Hi”
He gestured for me to sit and watch him weave
So we sat in silence until I had to leave.

“I will come visit you tomorrow,” I said
He didn’t look up from his work but nodded his head
The next day as promised, I visited The Basket Man
For hours we sat and I acquired a nice tan.

With awkward English and gestures he spoke
Telling me of his past life, this new one, his hope
I learned that he came from a land far away
Where mountains met sky, his former home lay.

A land of such beauty, vast riches and mystery
Kings have fought wars for it all throughout history
Though much blood has been spilled and many men killed
None have succeeded in conquering it’s indomitable will.

In that country he was The Basket Man, too
He made little money but enough for a bride he could woo
And they made their home in The Great Kashmir Valley
They had four children, for he loved his wife, Kali.

Then one day the great monsoon rains came
The fierce wind and rain washed his home and family away
Basket Man’s hands stilled as he spoke
At the age of ten, I could not imagine how he coped.

Quietly I cried for Basket Man’s loss
To have left his life behind must have come at great cost
Never again would I judge a man by what he wears
No school could ever teach me this lesson of how to care.