IMPERFECT HUMANS OF MUMBAI

She deserves security. He needs immediate protection. How can they choose one over the other?

Loved the short story. Intelligent and very compassionate – Ashok Row Kavi, journalist and one of the first out and proud Indians.

Recommended for Adults over 18 years. 

Part 1: As I walked to work from Bandra station, I slowed down to watch the boy. He waited with a gaggle of others at the Linking road signal for the lights to turn red. They all wore that hardened look that street kids seem to acquire over time. That is, all except the boy. Being the tiniest of his crowd, his face still retained a touch of vulnerability.

He'll get there eventually, I thought with a touch of regret as I stopped to buy peanuts from my favourite vendor. As the man skillfully and swiftly twisted a piece of paper into a puda , a cone, and filled it with hot, freshly roasted peanuts, I couldn’t help listening in to what those kids were saying.

“They’re hosting a free lunch at Seva Sadan,” said one in Hindi.

“Let’s go and eat till our stomachs are good and full,” the young one, about six, said. “Who knows when our next meal will be?”

He eyed his companions, seeking approval for his cool cynicism. Indulgent smiles on their faces they looked down at the youngest member of their motley pack. The eldest, a scrawny teenager, slightly hunched and as emaciated as the rest, gave him an affectionate swipe.

I couldn’t help an inward smile. 

When the lights turned red, the boy, eager to prove his mettle, swiftly picked out a likely prospect and dashed across to reach her before the others did.

I saw car windows being hastily wound up. She leaned slightly forward and darted a hasty glance left, then right. Spotting the little beggar boy running towards her she leaned right back into her seat. Being in an auto she was definitely more at the mercy of beggars like him than in a car. Switching her large purple bag to the shoulder furthest from him she clutched it firmly. Eyes blanking out, face an inscrutable mask and she was ready for him.

 “Twenty rupees, madam,” I heard him say.

She ignored him, staring straight ahead. Undeterred, he repeated his plea, going as close as he dared, to try and catch her eye. She looked through him.

“Only twenty rupees.”

Again no response. 

“Okay,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, pretending to give in to the hard bargain she drove. “Ten rupees. Only ten.” 

The consummate little actor tilted his face in silent appeal, coaxing her to agree it was a reasonable compromise. 

She continued to ignore him but her lips twitched.

The tension went out of his little body. He turned to look triumphantly at the older boy who was standing watchful, at the traffic lights. The teenager gave him a half wave of approval.

The lights were still red when a hundred engines revved and began edging forward. The boy started running ahead of the auto, knowing it would leap away within seconds. If she did cough up, it would be at the last second. Any earlier and she’d be swamped by other beggars. He raised his voice.

“Only ten, madam.” 

As she sped away, she leaned right out. Hands outstretched they completed the exchange. She was smiling broadly but he had already forgotten her. He looked down at his booty and hastily zigzagged between vehicles that had picked up speed. Reaching safety, he handed the note over to his scrawny companion at the lights, who swiftly pocketed it.

Filled with resentment I watched, thinking typical uncharitable thoughts of a typical, privileged Mumbaikar.

The man has perfectly good limbs. Why doesn’t he get himself a job? Earn his own ten rupees?

Slightly ashamed, I grudgingly conceded that nobody would give such an unkempt, unknown entity a job. I wouldn’t.

At least, he and his kind provided much needed protection to their tiny wards in exchange for controlling the cash.

 

#

 

That evening, at dinner, I told the family about the boy and how the lady in the auto had found him irresistible.

“The rascal could probably teach psychologists a thing or two,” dad said, amid laughter.

“What’s a psychologist?” said our six-year-old.

“Well,” said dad, “just as a doctor knows everything about our bodies, a psychologist knows about our minds.”

Our bright young daughter absorbed that with a serious face. She was our adopted child and couldn’t have been more loved had she been our own flesh and blood.

That's who the boy reminds me of, I thought.

He reminds me of Smita. She won our hearts from the moment she walked into the room on unsteady feet, clutching her warden's hand. That she felt vulnerable was obvious. What gave her away was the sudden flutter of long lashes, the dart of fear as she looked uncertainly from one face to the other. We sat there frozen, afraid to make any wrong moves. That is, all except mum. She squatted right down. The warden followed suit and between them they coaxed the first genuine smile out of her. Before long we were all on the floor, eating out of her tiny little hands. We wanted to take her home straight away – nurture her, get rid of that haunted look from her eyes, but adoption was a long process. We would have to be patient.

 

#

 

A few days later, on my way from Bandra station, I saw the boy again. His warden held him in a vice like grip. As the lights turned red, it was difficult to miss the anxious glance the others gave the boy before dispersing to beg. The teenager held on a moment longer before giving his young ward a little push. The boy, his eyes a horrible mix of fear and dull resignation, hobbled away, wincing and in obvious pain. His heart not in his begging he evoked neither pity nor a smile from the jaded Mumbaikar in the taxi. As the taxi drove off, the boy glanced fearfully at his scowling warden. What a change in that cheerful little face.

This time I kept mum at the table, hoping nobody would notice how disturbed I felt. After dinner, we played with Smita for a while before putting her to bed. We kissed her and bade our parents goodnight. Alone in our room at last, I told Ashraf about the boy.

“To me he looked like he’d been abused,” I said, my voice low, even if everyone had retired for the night.

When he did not respond, I said, “You know, sexually.”

“What?” Ashraf said in disbelief. “No. How could you tell?”

“He was walking awkwardly, for one.”

“Could be anything. A boil on his inner thigh.” Ashraf smiled in that annoyingly superior way he had.

Why was he being so dismissive? Was it such a ridiculous assumption that the boy could have been sexually abused? 

I felt aggrieved and my thoughts were less than charitable towards my partner. Maybe he doesn't want to get involved - disrupt his smooth life running on well oiled wheels! Doesn't he remember pictures of our new-born Smita at the orphanage? She looked like a large insect with thin, spindly limbs and a rib cage that looked like an exoskeleton. She had been left near a garbage dump. Had someone not gotten involved she wouldn't be with us today. 

A shudder went through me. It was unthinkable. 

They told us bluntly, had they been a few minutes late she would have been eaten by rats. They'd rescued her and brought her to the orphanage. Nurturing her back to health had been slow at first, but finally they had put her up for adoption. Our darling daughter, our healthy, intelligent and smart Smita. It still made me sick to think of those rats. How close we’d come to losing her before we’d even found her!

Thankfully she didn't remember any of it but it had given her that haunted look that had cut us up the first time we'd met her. Couldn't Ashraf accept that people were cruel and selfish? That sometimes we did need to get involved, whatever the consequences to us?

“Yes. Could be,” I said to Ashraf, sounding testy even to myself, “except, when he handed over the cash, he did not meet the older boy’s eyes. And when that boy grabbed his hand along with the cash, and gave a mocking laugh, he flinched and snatched his hand away.”

This time Ashraf was silent.

“We can’t interfere,” he said at last.

When he saw I was about to protest, he amended that quickly to, “Okay, why don’t I come with you to Bandra tomorrow? See for myself?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. 

Doubt had already started creeping in. I couldn’t help wondering what difference it would make whether Ashraf saw the boy for himself or not. What could we do?

I slept fitfully that night.

Watching Ashraf’s tranquil features while he slept drove me insane. How could he? Every loud snore made me jump. Giving up on sleep, I got out of bed and went to our balcony to feel the gentle breeze and to try and empty my head of thoughts that were keeping me awake. They wouldn’t stop.

He’s right. There’s not much we can do.

He’s such a tiny creature. So helpless. Unable to fight back. Barely a week ago, I saw him cheeky and cheerful.

I finally got to bed, my last thought, we cannot not do anything.

#

CLICK FOR PART 2

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Imperfect Humans of Mumbai - Part 2

This fiction tale is recommended for Adults over 18 years.
 

At six the next morning, the muted tones of the alarm woke me. I gave an inward groan. Already?

Loathe to move, I listened, knowing it would grow louder and more persistent. A second before that happened, I flipped an arm over, eyes still closed. After a little fumbling I managed to turn the ruddy thing off. Bringing my arm back I sighed and put it around Ashraf. Snuggling close, I burrowed my face in his neck, inhaling deeply. He smelt faintly of soap and I loved that. I moved drugged lips against his warm skin. He stirred.

“Mmm,” he said, “don’t stop.” 

Soon we were both too far gone to even think of stopping. For a long moment after, we lay there, our breath mingling in short, sharp gasps. Slowly landing back to earth, I opened my eyes, stretched and smiled without uttering a word, at my partner.

Years together and we still enjoyed one another. No two people could be so lucky.

Ashraf and I had been together since 2003. With Smita’s arrival we became a family. She completed us. The company Ashraf worked for gave him paternity leave. He broke the news to us that night, professing undying loyalty to his wonderful bosses and making us laugh. Truth be told, we were all blown away that such a forward-looking company existed in India!

With Ashraf at home for a month, mum and he bonded. Not only mum, our efforts to reach out to our neighbours started paying off.

Take Mrs. Makhijani. In the old days, whenever she saw us, she hastened away, her face suggesting we were sin incarnate. I always pretended I hadn’t seen her but Ashraf yelled out greetings just to get under her skin. After she was out of sight, we would amuse ourselves, imagining the debauchery she thought we could be getting up to in our bedroom.

“I’m sure she gets titillated by thoughts of our tangled limbs.” Being out in the open we’d conduct such conversations with serious faces.

“Never mind her. Stop titillating me.”

After adopting Smita, whenever we took her down to the building compound for some fresh air, Mrs. Makhijani couldn’t keep away. She went out of her way to seek us out. She coo-ed to our daughter, laughing in delight as our baby chortled and gurgled at her attempts to entertain her. We stood by like the proud parents we were.

She advised us on what to do for the baby’s colic. As far as we three dads were concerned it was wonderful to witness. Mum found her a bit too overwhelming but kept quiet, knowing how important it was to get people like her to accept not only Smita, but us through her.

And the results were plain to see. We watched our darling girl blossom. The teachers had nice things to say about her and every evening we watched her from our balcony, running around the compound with her friends. On occasion, the two of us went down to be with her.

Smita’s favourite game with us was twenty questions. We would ask her random general knowledge questions, which she would attempt to answer. The other kids would crowd around and join in. We became very popular. Their favourite uncles. Smita couldn’t help showing off her dads, proudly holding each of our hands in hers and generally demanding our attention.

Before her sixth birthday most people had stopped mistrusting us for being different. We were just devoted dads like most of the other modern-day dads. For our daughter’s sake we schooled ourselves to avoid physical contact with each other in public. Not even a mistaken brushing of hands. It had been so hard getting her into our lives, we wouldn’t chance losing her. Nothing was too great a sacrifice.

When the Central Adoption Resource Agency  (CARA), which regulates adoptions, slammed a new ruling stipulating that same sex couples wouldn’t be allowed to adopt, we couldn’t bring ourselves to voice our anger in public. Not wanting to jeopardise our future chances, we railed and ranted in the privacy of our home.

“Are they afraid our adopted children will become gay?” Ashraf’s lip curled with derision.

“Or that we are child molesters?” I tried to sound equally scathing but my voice shook.

The misconceptions! The ignorance! The prejudice! On and on we went.

 

#

Ma and pa quietly adopted Smita.

When we invited toddlers from the building for her third birthday party, we made it a point to invite Mrs. Makhijani. She was a lonely old widow, after all.

I think she enjoyed the party almost as much as everyone else. As for our darling, her portrait hangs in the lounge, a happy smile and a huge smear of chocolate across her face, a confident arm around each dad, forever reminding us of our adorable little toddler, now all of six and with a mind of her own.

 

#

 

At around half past seven, she burst into the room, demanding attention. She clambered all over us, crumpling our office clothes.

“How’s our little girl? Slept well?”

“Anita said in class yesterday, that her uncle had to cut frogs and cockroaches to become a doctor.”

“That was a long time ago. We use computers today. We don’t dissect real frogs anymore.” As she absorbed that Ashraf stroked her hair.

“Papa,” she said, impatiently moving her head out of his reach, “you’re spoiling my hair.” Ashraf grinned at me over her head. “Oh, sorry darling. Mustn’t muss up your hair. Who combed it for you today?”

“I did.”

Who else? her voice suggested.

“Of course. Silly me.”

“Do you like my bobpin? It’s shaped like the Indian flag.”

“So it is. Looks lovely.”

She jumped off and went to kneel at the bookshelf. The bottom shelf was hers. As she picked up one of her books she said, “I want to be a psychono…” As she stumbled over the word she looked up, frowning.

“…logist,” I said.  “Psychologist.”

“Wow. Great,” said Ashraf, with a hasty glance at me. 

That word reminded us of the boy. I was looking forward to, and dreading, what we would find at the signal today.

“Hope I’m mistaken,” I couldn’t help murmuring as we approached. Then I saw him. 

“The boy in the blue shirt,” I said to Ashraf, feeling that familiar twisting in my gut. The older boy held him apart from the others in a vice like grip. When the signal changed, he didn’t let go till the boy was forced to look at him. He held the boy’s eyes with his for a long moment before giving him a push. The little fellow righted himself and limped off as fast as he could.

Ashraf and I walked on. White faced, he asked, “What should we do?”

“What can we do?” I felt agitated and my voice was louder than I intended.

 Ashraf gave me a warning look. We were beginning to attract attention and that was something we normally avoided at all cost. I was past caring and lengthened my stride, trying at the same time to curb my helpless frustration. We continued walking without saying much. Before we parted to go off to our respective jobs, he tried once more.

“I know how hard it is,” he said, his voice sympathetic.

I knew he was trying to be understanding but I was not to be consoled.

“Should we just ignore it, then?” I did not bother hiding the bitter acrimony in my voice.

“Not fair,” he said quietly. “We don’t even know for sure what the problem is.” 

#

 Ashraf texted me that afternoon. “Have an idea. Talk later.”

I knew he meant the boy.

“Okay, thanks. And sorry.” That last was for lashing out at him earlier, for no fault of his.

“All good.”

That night, I couldn’t wait to get him to myself. 

“One thing is clear,” he whispered when we were alone at last. “We cannot involve the police.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“So here’s my suggestion. Why don’t we talk to Mrs. Kapadia?”

Mrs. Kapadia ran one of the better orphanages - the very one from which we’d adopted Smita. She had vetted my parents thoroughly before releasing Smita into their care. To be fair, we’d vetted her orphanage as thoroughly. With headlines screaming horror stories of abuse at our orphanages, we couldn’t be too careful. Innumerable trips to get to know the kids at the orphanage, ask them questions, covertly check them out for signs of bruises or abuse of any kind and we decided this was the one. We got to know, like and trust Mrs. Kapadia.

I didn’t realise I’d been holding my breath, wondering if Ashraf’s idea would be worth pursuing. Wondering if I’d like it.

Expelling it with a rush I jumped up. “Yes! Let’s do it. First thing in the morning.”

We wondered what we would say.

“We’ll suss that out once we get there,” Ashraf said in confident tones. “Let's not speculate about sexual or any other abuse,” he warned.

“I know," I said, my voice testy. "I’m not a fool,” 

“Of course,” Ashraf said, a shade too quickly.

I fumed but let it pass. After calming down, I said, “We’ll impress upon her on how young he is. And that he doesn’t seem to live with his immediate family.”

“Brilliant!” said my man.

We did not confide in my parents. No point in worrying them needlessly. We knew the objections. 

"You are being irresponsible to Smita."

“If the orphanage suspects she’s in a gay household they might decide to take her away.”

We understood their fears. Especially now, the Supreme Court had done an about face, taking away our right to marriage. There had been a huge outpouring of support on social media with everyone draping their id photos in rainbow colours. It was uplifting but if some homophobic individuals in a position of authority took away our darling girl, would public opinion matter? Who would come forward to protect her right - our right, to a happy and secure family life? We were under no illusion. We lived with some form of homophobia borne of ignorance and fear everyday of our lives. 

The one thing we could, and did, do for Smita from the first day we brought her home, was to ensure some of our neighbours really got to know us. We enjoyed getting to know them too. In the end, what mattered most was the welcome they accorded to our little girl. 

How we had changed. How being Smita’s parents had changed us. As youngsters, we had given a damn.

#

 

The next morning, we pretended to go off to work as usual. At the orphanage, we asked to speak to Mrs. Kapadia. She recognized us immediately. She wanted to know how Smita was and we showed her photographs we’d brought along. As soon as we reasonably could, we brought up the topic of the boy. We told her about his not having his immediate family in Mumbai and how young and helpless he seemed. We didn’t utter the words, ‘sexual harassment’ and yet, felt she could read what we left unsaid.

The only words she uttered were, “You’ve done the right thing.”

She sent us away with the promise that the orphanage would look into the case. They would interview the boy, gather data and make a decision within a couple of days. She said she’d keep us informed. We left the orphanage in a much happier frame of mind.

According to the United Nations there are 2.5 lakh homeless kids living on the streets of Mumbai. We hoped we’d taken one off.

 

#

The young street kid in this story bears a distinct resemblance to one I'd seen in a documentary. I asked, and was granted permission by the Aletheia foundation to use him in the story - K. Mathur. 

Alms With A Difference

 A young girl, a tiny child beggar, and the tender bond that develops between the two...

That was a very beautiful story, which could so well be true - Zephyr

There was always a high flow of foot traffic on that bridge in Mumbai for it was the link from the suburb of East to West Dadar. 

Vaishali, a small speck at the foot of the bridge, eyed it stretching away endlessly, weighed down with noisy traffic, pedestrians, vendors, dust, the heat…Slipping her hands under the straps of her heavy backpack she massaged her shoulders.

Go on then, she urged herself. The trick is to keep moving. 

Bringing her hands behind her back and under the bag, she gave it a hoist and took a determined step up the bridge. That hurdle overcome she settled into a comfortable rhythm - left then right, left-right. Her mind took over, events of the day crowding out the sheer drudge of walking up, then down that bridge

Her mind was on Sandeep. She had known for weeks their relationship wasn’t working.

This must end, she had thought. But how?

It had been surprisingly easy. They’d broken up at the end of the day. ‘It’s not working for me, Vaishu,’ he’d said regretfully.

There it was. The inevitable. It still came as a shock. She had a momentary panic attack. What would she do without having a nice, strong, dependable arm to lean on? Or a partner to take her to the movies? Should she pretend not to understand what he was talking about?

NO. That would be cowardly. And unfair to them both. 

Without admitting it wasn't working for her either, she had quietly agreed.

Were they making a huge mistake? Was it her imagination or had he held on to her hand a moment longer than necessary? Her heart full of doubt she’d watched him turn away, before walking out those huge college gates herself.

Right now, on her way back home, she admitted to herself that it was a blow to her ego. And inconvenient. Nothing more. Half way up Tilak Bridge she acknowledged the guilty sense of relief that was beginning to suffuse her being.

I'll survive, she thought, a sudden spring in her step, knowing she shouldn't feel so ridiculously happy. If only I didn't have to face those pitying looks from the others, she thought, her feet slowing down. I know, she thought, perking up again. I won't tell them. Not yet.. 

They’d been together for two years. It had crept upon her gradually that there were certain things about him she didn’t like. Where once she couldn’t wait to get to college simply to be at the receiving end of that lazy smile through, oh those heavenly, even white teeth, she had started seeing past that.

Why couldn’t she ignore the little things he did? Like laughing at just about everyone and expecting her to laugh with him?  She felt a twinge of embarrassment every time he did that and her gaze became shifty. When the animated conversations about life, their hopes, their dreams gave way to gossip, that’s when she should have ended it. Somedays when they were by themselves, she found herself surreptitiously checking her mobile to see if there were texts from friends. Anyone. Even her mum, for goodness’ sake. 

It was difficult for Sandeep not to be admired. The result was inevitab...

 Vaishali jumped, coming back to the present with a fright. Was that a creepy crawly that had brushed against her leg? A cockroach? She shuddered. She hated cockroaches. With a half-strangled sound, she bent down to flick wildly at her leg. She stopped herself just in time as she saw a tiny hand, the tiniest she'd ever seen, withdraw in fright. It belonged to a child beggar. He'd barely brushed it against her leg to catch her attention.

For a second, reacting to the fright he'd given her she had this urge to yell at the little boy. Sanity restored, she looked at him again. He was a boy of about three or four. Exhaling on a shaky breath she would’ve continued on her way - such things happened on Mumbai roads all the time - but he had such a quality of vulnerability that without realising what she was doing, she stopped. She looked at the child beggar, not knowing what to do. 

This was a gut reaction. It wasn't the face she'd trained herself to present to beggars. However persistently they invaded her space, however much they touched her with their dirty, grubby hands she kept walking, never looking at them, her face carefully blank, her pace neither quickening nor slowing. After about five minutes of this - their insistent touching as they tried to force her to look at them, and her determination not to, they ran off to harass another, more likely victim. They never realised how close she came to caving in.

In the eighties she used to give money to the few beggars on Bombay roads. But, almost overnight, their numbers had increased. Begging had become a whole new industry - that of gangs organising poor and deprived kids into a beggar's brigade. There were too many and they had started using tactics of harassment to get her to cough up. She would recoil wherever she felt a beggars’ army of persistent hands on her person but she’d decided she was better off holding on grimly to her lost-in-thought demeanour and measured walk.

Today was different. After that one touch, the little child did not touch her again. He sat there, frozen, except for his huge eyes, not beseeching - the look these beggars normally assumed - but slightly fearful, slightly curious and very hopeful - a look that somehow pulled at her heartstrings.

Vaishali knew so many reasons why she ought not to shell out to this beautiful, dirt-streaked baby and yet, she was driven to. She wanted to wipe the sadness and fear off the little upturned face, the obvious hunger. He still hadn't acquired the streetwise cunning she knew would mar his face before long - a beseeching face for people like her and a knowing, sideways glance for his beggar friends.

As she went for her purse, she realised there was probably a gang of other kids watching out for suckers just like her. 

She suddenly knew what she must do. She clamped shut her coin purse and marched across to one of the street vendors standing not too far away. She bought a batata wada. She cautioned the vendor not to put any chutney in the bread. After her tiff with Sandeep, the two hadn't ended up at the canteen for a coffee and she luckily had some pocket money to spare. She picked out the visible chillies from the vada with her fingers, went back to the child and handed it to him. He accepted it with excited eyes and a beaming smile. She stood there watching over him while he ate – quick, tiny little bites. One of the other beggars tried to approach her. She stopped him with a fierce look. There was something so formidable about her blazing eyes that he did not dare.

She was aware that the other pedestrians had started noticing her.  Some looked at her with interest, but most had cynicism writ large on their faces. What a foolish young woman, those faces seemed to say. Perhaps she thinks she can change the world. 

Vaishali reached home on a high. She was happier than she'd been in a long time. Not only was she rid of Sandeep, she had watched a young child finish half a vada and put away the other half for later. For the first time in a long while, he would've been too full to finish what was on his plate.

*****

Jeevan, for that was the young child's name, didn’t remember feeling so full and content. He slept. Waking up at around 6 pm, he fished out the other half vada and hiding it in his beggar’s cloth which was normally spread out before him to collect coins flicked down by one or two passers-by, ate it. He knew his minder would come around dusk to take him away and he didn't want to have to share even a crumb with anyone.

So that's how batata vadas tasted. He had always smelt them but this was the first time he'd had one. It was delicious. His minders only gave him watery daal. He normally went to bed hungry. But not tonight. In fact, he couldn't have eaten a morsel of that daal, so full was he.

The young lady came every day after that. She was careful never to give him money but always brought him a slice of bread or roti with a dry sabzi in it. It was packed in newspaper. It was half her lunch. She liked to think he looked forward to their little tryst as much as she did. Within a couple of days, she thought she saw a change in him. His pallid face now looked like it had a bit of colour and his eyes were definitely brighter. Whenever he saw her, he stood up in anticipation and pleasure. They exchanged smiles. With tenderness in her eyes, she gave him the packet she'd lovingly prepared for him.

The other beggars kept away. It wasn’t food their minder was interested in. It was money. And she had none to spare.

Vaishali watched as the little boy opened the packet and peeked inside. With a shy smile at her he bit into his little wrap, his beedi-bati. She waited patiently as without looking up again, he finished it. Bending down, she patted his head. A spring in her step she went on her way.

Vaishali knew she wanted to do much more for this child but didn't know what else she could do or who she could approach. These were the seventies, well before the internet revolution. Her wish remained locked away in her heart, pushed to the back of her mind the minute she reached college.

Over the weekend, with so much on her mind, Vaishali forgot the child. She didn't remember the little boy until the weekend was gone. Her mind on what she would tell her best friend about her break up, she started out for college on Monday. 

I can't keep it a secret much longer, she thought. I'll have to tell. 

As she reached the bridge, she knew she'd forgotten something. With a sinking heart she remembered what it was. She hurried back home, picked a sheet of newspaper and hurried out again. Out of sight of her house but still within the boundaries of her housing colony, she opened her lunch box with fingers that shook and rolled some of the sabzi into one roti for the little child. Her heart hammering, she wondered how she could have forgotten the boy. She tried to imagine his reaction. He would've felt so let down. Perhaps, she thought without hope, he didn't beg over the weekend. Thoughts of Sandeep had all but flown. Her breath escaping on a sob she thought, to have given someone so young, hope, and then to let him down so badly. 

She hurried back to the bridge. With an anxious heart she rushed to the spot where he normally sat. He wasn't there. 

She traced her steps back. He wasn't there. 

He is so tiny he's easy to miss, she thought, not wanting to give up hope. Eyes beginning to fill with tears she crossed the bridge, uncaring of the squeal of brakes and angry honking from a car that almost ran her over. Of course he wasn't there.

I'll be late for my lecture. He must be on the other side. That's where we've always had out evening trysts. Trysts! 

She laughed, aware that she was drawing attention to herself. It had been what? Four whole five-minute encounters? No, meetings? No, definitely trysts. Minutes full of love. And concern. Vague fears at the back of her mind for when she had to leave him every day. She rubbed hard at the solitary tear that had run down her cheek unnoticed, but was now tickling her nose. Those minutes spent with the tiny boy had impacted her more than two whole years spent with Sandeep. 

I'll find him on our side. I'm sure I will. Just further down the bridge. I'll spot his dear little face searching the crowds for me, and when he sees me his eyes will light up with hope and excitement. I'll scold him for not being at our usual place. Then I'll laugh to show everything is fine. 

With fear deep in the pit of her stomach she crossed over. He wasn't there.

She reached college on feet that felt like lead. Her friend, who'd heard Sandeep talk about his break up with Vaishali, took one look at her pain ravaged face and knew with a sinking heart it was all true.

***

The child sat on the new road his minder told him was much better than the old bridge. His stomach hurt with hunger. He knew he would get his daal only if he earned his keep. With desperate and beseeching eyes he touched the feet of a passerby. The woman expertly twisted her legs to avoid his grubby little fingers and having succeeded, triumphantly walked on

                                     ***  

       

                                      

This story was written as far back as 2012. It is easy to give a coin and feel good about ourselves. Life is busy and it is harder to prepare a newspaper puda of something to eat and give that instead. Who knows, if the idea goes viral, it might bust the Dickensian gangs that exploit these young, vulnerable kids.

Here's an article in The Hindu to help you decide if sometimes you'd like to make an exception.

Vaishali's face: Thank you Brooke Cagle at Unsplash.com

Child Beggar: (Help me find and acknowledge this photographer, someone)

Photograph of Tilak Bridge: The Asian Age.

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