We, the people

I see that little boy from ‘Swades’ again. The one who sells drinking water to earn his evening meal. I see him selling a newspaper on some days, cold drinks on others, sweeping the windows of cars on yet other days. I see him in some form every now and then.

I’d like to talk to him sometime; ask him what does he think about life? Are there moments of happiness for him? Does he ever feel sad? Does he feel anything, for that matter? Does he wonder why some other kids, same age as him, get off cars and are treated to ice-cream by their parents, while he didn’t even get parents in the first place? Does he ever feel that he has been short changed by the creator?

But there’s more to this than just what he feels; there’s also what I feel about him. Everyday I see him; on most days, that is all that happens - I see him but don’t feel anything. I am too engrossed in my own world. On most days, I am immune to his poverty. On some other days when my own life’s tensions relieve me, I feel sorry for him, feel like giving him something so I buy a couple of whatever it is that he is selling, hoping to feel that I’ve done my bit for him, hoping to feel gratified by what I just did. But I don’t. So I come online and write this article, hoping that it’ll provoke some others to think about it and probably do something more than just read or write like me. Frankly, I don’t think it does much but I write it anyway.

In the evening, my friends and I get together and discuss India and its poverty over beer. By the end of the evening, I’m drunk and hardly care about the children on the street. The next morning, my boss gives me a new assignment and for the next week or so, I am again immune to that little boy’s selling voice.