Guest Post - Husband in Hot Water

I first came to know Debajyoti when he let loose a tongue-in-cheek cartoon about bloggers. Something funny with a large dose of truth that makes people uncomfortable even as they laugh! I was hooked. Since, I have visited his posts and have enjoyed not only his cartoons but also his story telling skills. He has an unusual imagination. Want to know about a dog with a positive attitude whose theme song is, “Nirma....Nirma”, visit Debajyoti’s blog. 

But today, please visit his blog to read my guest post about the story of a stroppy wife and her poor, misunderstood husband and the wonderfully amusing cartoon he’s drawn to compliment the tale. Incidentally, this was half my entry for the Harper Collins, "Get Published" contest.

The link again: http://factsandnonsense.com/a-husband-in-hot-water/

A Husband In Hot Water- True Story

What does a poor man do when he has a misunderstanding with his stroppy wife? Find out what this husband did. 

*'dosi' - old lady

On one of our walks my husband and I came upon a five year old playing in his garden. When his eyes fell on our dog, he came running to the gate. Our dog went up to him immediately, tail wagging furiously as she  looking up at him with joyous expectancy. The boy stooped down and patted her through the gate grill, his hand gentle, eyes soft. 

"Hello, little doggy," he said. 

All of 800 millimeters high, I guess he felt mighty tall compared to her. 

He looked up at us and asked, "What's your doggy's name?"

"Kara," I said.

"Ka--ra," he felt the name on his tongue, while he continued stroking her.

"I like it," he pronounced, his eyes lighting up. We were both absurdly pleased with his seal of approval.

“How old is Kara?”

"She's an old lady. She's sixteen," said my husband.

"Oh,” said the young fella, looking up at us with eyes that were suddenly anxious. Mystified, we looked back at his worried face. We could tell he wanted to say something. We waited, encouraging smiles on our faces, as Kara ran off to investigate a smell.

“I have a dog too,” the toddler announced at last.

“Really? What’s your dog’s name?”

“Cuddles,” he said his eyes softening momentarily. The next second they clouded over again. He quickly turned away. What an amazingly mobile face. Fascinated, we watched, wondering what was bothering him. 

Unable to keep his worry to himself a moment longer, he turned an anxious face to us, blurting out, "He, and my mum, are very old. They're twenty-one..."

His voice trailed away. His lashes came down on troubled eyes and his lips gave an uncontrollable little quiver. If our hearts hadn't melted, we would have laughed. 

"Twenty-one isn't old for humans," my hubby assured him, his face grave and voice gentle. "Only dogs."

Somewhat comforted, the toddler looked down to hide his obvious relief. He continued patting Kara.

“Fre-ddy,” called a soft voice from inside the house. We’d sensed her presence behind a window, ensuring her son was safe as he chatted with strangers at the gate.

“Bye, Kara,” he smiled, waving at us and our dog before running off. “Com-ing...”

With a wave at him that somewhat included his mum, we continued walking.

“I guess that was his old lady,” I smiled.

“We should meet her,” said my husband. His voice had assumed the same gravity he'd shown Freddy.

“Oh! Why?” I asked, puzzled, a split second before I looked up to see the gleam in his eye. 

"Just to reassure her twenty-one isn't old..."

He tried hard to keep his voice grave but didn't succeed. I should have known. 

"Coming from you, my thirty-five year old hubby," I said, "that would be perfectly believable."

"Oh yeah? Wonder what the little chap would think of almost forty," my darling hubby, four years my junior, and not to be outdone, pondered solemnly as he looked for my reaction out of the corners of his eyes.

I couldn't help thinking the boy would think he'd met Methuselah. I said as much to my man and we both ended up laughing.

We continued walking in companionable silence. Braced by the heady scent of jasmine and pine mingled with roses, we breathed in deeply. The New Zealand air felt crisp and cool. As we approached our favourite park we picked up pace. Suddenly, my husband took off from behind. 

“Come on my two dosi-s*,” he teased as he ran past. 

Kara would’ve easily caught up with him. Unfortunately for her, her leash was with me. We chased after him, but he was already sprinting way ahead. We ran around the park and, slightly out of breath, reached the exit closest to home. Settling back into a leisurely pace I said, “Even with you shooting off without any warning, us dosis came a very close second. Didn’t we Kara?” Her tongue hanging right out, Kara looked up at me and wagged her tail. My husband, I could tell with an inward smile, was ready with something smart on the tip of his tongue. This time I was expecting it. I waited, only to have him bite it all back. He darted a guilty look at me at exactly the same moment as I looked at him, puzzled. He looked away hastily.

As we neared home, I noticed him glance at me more than once. What’s bothering him? I wondered. Why the guilty looks?

“Hope you’re not upset?” he said, tentatively.

“Why would I be?” I was genuinely puzzled.

“That quip I made about your being a dosi? That was just a joke.”

Oh, so that was it. “I know,” I replied lightly. 

Something in my tone must’ve been at variance with my words for his eyes went to my face and looked away hastily. I pretended not to notice. 

Why’s he going all apologetic for nothing, I wondered, beginning to feel ever so slightly annoyed. My mind had begun churning out thoughts I couldn’t help. Does he think I can’t take his calling me a dosi? Or almost forty? Does he think I have no sense of humour? Or that I’m so overly sensitive, his calling me a dosi will undermine my confidence?

Slight resentment began seeping through my mind and it showed in my stiffened bearing. Have I ever let my age dictate who I am?

My thoughts were on a roll. There simply was no stopping them. Perhaps he has begun worrying about our age difference, I thought uncharitably, knowing it was neither true nor fair.

I kept ignoring his worried looks, pretending it would make matters worse if I said anything right then, while I was feeling annoyed. I gave myself a little pat on the back for wisely keeping mum. Had I examined my true motives closely, I might have had to face the uncomfortable fact that watching him stew in his apprehensions gave me a perverse sense of gratification.

Finally, realising I was unwilling to admit I was put off, and knowing I was, he gave up trying to probe. We passed the most majestic of golden ashes, a copper beech with outstanding red foliage that contrasted vividly with the greenery around it, and a eucalyptus that shone silver in a gentle breeze before I managed to get my thoughts in order.

I felt vaguely ashamed of my silent tantrum but felt that the moment to say anything had somehow passed. I’d apologise some other time. For the rest of our walk we indulged in our favourite pastime of peeking into and commenting on interesting front gardens of private properties. Both made an effort to enjoy the exercise as much as we always did, but were aware of an uneasy truce.

Tired, yet refreshed, we reached home. As we let ourselves in I was acutely conscious of what lay ahead - the inescapable weekend grind. The cleaning, gardening, cooking... 

Five days a week, after returning home from work, attending to the children's homework, dinner and dishes, we had no energy to do much else. We normally attacked the rest over the weekend, but today the thought made me grumpy. That I was trying hard to push away my guilt at being petty earlier might have had something to do with it. The kids were away – a sleepover and perhaps a blessing. I needed to work this feeling out of my system but not by slaving over the stove or attending to their needs. Damn the housework, I thought. It can wait until next weekend. 

“I am just not in the mood for cooking,” I sighed and flopped on to the sofa.

“Why don’t I cook something?" he said, not looking enthusiastic either.  

"I know," he said, as if inspired. "Let's neither of us bother cooking. Let's go out for lunch.”

“Oh no,” I replied, “Too soon after our walk.”

“What!” he exclaimed, feigning surprise. “Who’s getting ol..” and he stopped in his tracks.

I looked at him in dismay. Oh no, I thought, this has got to stop. This time though, my anger was spent. I just wanted to clear the air.

I began tentatively, “I’m sorry if I was upset during our walk.”

He went silent and simply shook his head. I don’t know why, it made me emotional. I continued in a distinctly wobbly voice, “I should have cleared the air right when it happened instead of letting it fester.”

“That’s oka...”

“But I was offended at the implied criticism – that I was so totally dour ...so lacking in confidence that I’d get upset if you joked about my being a dosi.”

He opened his mouth to protest but I was eager to carry on giving vent to thoughts I’d bottled up since the walk.

“It made me think to myself, am I such a frump?”

He winced and shook his head weakly. “I... no, of course no..” he began just as I reproached, “I thought you knew me better.”

“I..Yes, yes, of course I do. I mean - know...” and his voice trailed off in confusion.

"I can take a joke, you know."

Having spilt out all that had been spinning and buzzing around my head, I realised the poor chap needed a little time to gather his wits. I decided I'd give him time - wait patiently for his words of contrition for doubting that. And when they do come, when he spills out all his remorse, I'll accept his words graciously. The scene went through my mind. He'd say, 'I know. I've always known you're a good sport. I'm sorry.' And I'd say, 'That's alright,' with a forgiving smile. 

I was practicing the perfect forgiving yet loving smile in my mind's eye when I realised he hadn't said a word. Why didn’t he say something? Anything?  After an interminable silence I couldn't bear it anymore. I darted him a quick look. He was looking down, lost in thought.

Oh no! Was he remembering the incident and feeling upset all over again. Should I simply have left well alone - not raked it up? Never mind his apology, wasn’t he at least going to accept mine?

My mind was racing but my heart had slumped into my shoes. I’d almost given up when I felt an arm slowly go about my shoulders. Then he patted them affectionately.

“Sorry, old girl,” he said, a barely noticeable emphasis on the 'old'.

Had I heard right? I looked at him suspiciously. He was trying hard to look chastened but his lips were twitching. I watched him, my confused mind trying to grapple with what he’d just done. Three words and he’d managed to say it all. Struggling with how best I should accept those words I watched the tic that still worked at the side of his mouth. Then I caved in. 

"You ratbag!

I lunged for him, but both of us were laughing helplessly.

Never down for long, my man was back to being his irrepressible self. It had turned out to be a lovely day after all.

dosi - old lady

 A lovely ad showing more Indians enjoying life. Subtly done.

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Trying Hard To Be Sensible

What’s the day today, my heart gives a lurch
I tell myself to be sensible, free as that bird on its perch

Photo courtesy A.Mathur

Its days aren’t crawling, it’s good to be alive
There’s work to be done, there’s life to be lived,
The sun on its back, a sudden flutter of wings,
A juicy worm for breakfast and now, time to sing.

In the end it is best to remember
Publishing is a business,
To make it viable they must pick stories they think will sell
And, (we are told) ones they think, will go together well.

There are so many considerations that the best might miss out.
Take heart. I know rejection is hard.
For later, like the bird in its tree, the joyful bard.   

Photo courtesy A.Mathur

We will get back up and on with the business of living

Photo courtesy A.Mathur

And on occasion,we’re sure to bring out our stories,
read them and rejoice in our talent.

This post was written on the eve of the results of the HarperCollins / Indiblogger short story competition. My story - A Husband In Hot Water: What does a poor man do when his stroppy wife takes offence? Find out what this husband did. Genre - Humour.

Indu’s Trip To New Zealand

Nahi yaar, it is truly great. The air is so fresh and clean and although the stream outside our house is like a nala, you can see the bottom – so clean.

Wow, sounds beautiful.

It is 

Indu wasn't lying. What she didn't add was, she was lonely. Here she was, in a new country, the envy of all her friends back home and she was miserable. In fact she was hurt and homesick. She wanted to go back home and be among people she knew and had so much interaction with - shared laughter, movies together, yawns at boring lectures; Madras Cafe’s delicious and affordable idli-sambhar, more roadside junk, shopping sprees... In the evenings it was simply more of the same and at night, if she wasn't partying she had her family, warm and delicious food cooked and served by their live-in maid, no washing up after, chats on the phone, the internet, TV. It never stopped. She wasn’t lonely for a single moment.

Well, New Zealand was beautiful no doubt. But how long was she supposed to dish out the praise. She was beginning not to mean it anymore. Every time someone asked if she was enjoying New Zealand she dutifully dished out what she thought they wanted to hear. But if she had to say how wonderfully clean and green the country was, how fresh the air, one more time, she would scream! How long was she supposed to keep looking at hills or streams or ducks, penguins and natural beauty? Where was the action? Where was the bustle of life? Where were the roadside stalls, the crowds of people eating junk, visible and enjoying themselves? 

People seemed to go to work, Uni or school, then get back into their little cubby holes. After that there was nothing but four walls, the internet and TV. There were bars and pubs but they weren't really her thing. Movies, plays, cafes, shopping? Yes, there was that, but who did she go with? Alone was no fun and as for grownups... Indu sighed. 

She was staying with an Indian family, nice in their own way, but worked off their feet - working, chauffeuring kids to and from various activities, cooking, cleaning, washing up. She tried to help. She was really grateful for a touch of home but she understood they weren't expected to entertain her as well. 

God knows they try. Indu sighed. As for their get-togethers, they are slotted away into weekends, mostly 'at-homes' for other older folk whose teenaged kids never show up. Don't blame them, thought Indu, with a smothered laugh. They are so boring. Nothing seems to be spontaneous and fun ...and young, she thought despondently. And the weather! No help at all. Is it any wonder people remain indoors? 

It hadn’t started out like that. Indu had come to New Zealand for her degree in management literally on air. She was going to take her new country of temporary residence by storm. She was going to enjoy each and every moment. She was prepared to like and be liked. She was going to top every class. 

In a way she had idealised the kids here without really knowing they were as human and varied as kids back home. Her expectations had been way up. Her attempts to join in were misconstrued as over eagerness, rude interference or plain neediness. Her efforts were met with blank stares or polite smiles. The couple of conversations she’d attempted to join had died quickly. She was baffled. The light that she'd exuded was snuffed out. Confused and hurt, she’d begun to withdraw. Her face had acquired an aura of loneliness. 

How juvenile my expectations, she thought jadedly. Huh! Who do they think they are, she thought defiantly. Who needs them anyway? Oh, how I miss my life back home, my family and friends. I hate New Zealand. I hate the people here. 

Indu hated weekends and dreaded weekdays at Uni. Huh, Uni. Can’t they even say that properly?

Colleges over here are called Unis. If you call them “colleges” they think you’re talking of school.

What! Crazy. How can a college be a school?

I know. Stupid, isn’t it? Indu deleted that. It wouldn’t do to let on how she felt – on second thoughts, why the hell not. Seema is my best friend, she thought.

I know. Stupid, isn’t it? Then, deciding to put a cheerful spin on it, she added, When I saw some young kids in uniform spill out of “Abel-Smith College” opposite our house on my first day here I just assumed they were visiting the college on a school trip. 

Haha, and when they disappeared into classrooms you thought they were a whole bunch of child geniuses. Right?

Still the same old Seema :-) Good talking. I’d better go. It is early morning here and I should start getting ready for college, I mean, Uni.

Haha, you clown. Don't you dare go all Kiwi on me. Okay, bye for now.

Indu looked at the clock and reluctantly signed off. Dear Seema. She was the one person who still brought a smile to her lips. What would she have done without her regular chats with her close friend? She had better start getting ready. Indu dreaded Mondays. She hated the feeling of walking into the class and having every eye on her. No one said anything. The silence was deafening. She even sensed that group of girls, the ones she'd tried talking to, smirk behind her back. 

She looked to see who else smirked with them. To be fair, everyone was busy and nobody was paying her any attention at all. Sadly, she couldn't decide which was worse. She went and sat in a corner, seemingly busy as she used her phone to text a message. She ignored everyone too.

“Hi, is this seat taken?"

 

"No, I don't think so." She gave the girl a friendly smile but having been hurt too recently, she went back to texting.

Unfazed, the girl made another friendly overture. "Wow, Is that the Apple IPad 3?” Indu looked up to see the girl looking at her phone. She held it out politely, with a guarded smile.

"I find it such an improvement on the IPad 2," she ventured.

The two chatted for a while, careful to keep the conversation on mobile phones, things happening around them, the new class, even the weather but nothing personal. Indu chuckled. When she saw the girl look at her puzzled, she said, “It is only after coming here that I’ve realised why people talk of the weather so much.” 

The girl chuckled with her. "Here it seems to change from minute to minute." Then she added, “I’m Estelle, by the way.”

“Oh. Indu.”

That was the first bit of personal information they’d exchanged after a full five minutes of conversation. As they chatted, the two glanced at each other from time to time, to ensure the other was still interested, not distracted. If that happened, Indu was ready to move away. She felt skittish and at the same time, she had to admit it felt good talking to someone in class. If she glanced at Estelle, the smile seemed to be in her face and eyes. Indu opened up by the minute.

It was unfortunate she'd given up on making friends after one or two casual encounters with a few people she hadn't clicked with. There were at least a hundred more in that class. She knew now that it would have been better to have still remained vulnerable, human and approachable. She wouldn't have wasted those few precious days being miserable.

The lecturer (not professor, thought Indu with an inward smile) entered the classroom. Estelle took the seat next to hers. The two darted a quick smile at each other before getting their note books out. 

Indu knew she had lots to tell Seema when they chatted that night. She also knew she really liked New Zealand. So beautifully clean and green.

I swear, Seema, it is so clean and green. 

If you say that once more I'll scream and I swear you'll hear it all the way to New Zealand.

But it is, Indu protested. You've got to come and see for yourself. Why don't you? she added, meaning it with all her heart.

Thanks Indu. Will start collecting now and who knows, in fifty years...

Heehee. You'll never change.

Indu did not quite top the class but was happy with her results. There were too many distractions and what the heck, one is young only once.

Microsoft free clipart

 

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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