How A Boy Changed A Man

A few years ago if you had asked me for my opinion of the lower class, I would have told you that I thought of them as spoiled goods. But, one boy from the streets taught me to look at his side of things. That one boy, helped me open up my heart, and this is his story. 

It was a hot evening in April; A cacophony of cars and rickshaws accompanied by the distant howling of a pack of dogs was ever-present. The sun hid behind distant buildings as the trees stood patiently in the humid summer air, even the bird was silent. A scurry of men with luggage trunks on their heads, and women in ornate saris fought to reach the entrance of the Victoria Terminus. I bee-lined towards my car. Pushing people, so I could drive home to a fan. Heat licked my face and coiled around my arms and legs like a big-bellied serpent, my shirt clung to my body, and beads of sweat ran down my back. Walking past chaiwalas and groups of toy sellers, I was moving closer to my car when I noticed a boy lying against the bumper of my HM Contessa. I approached him, and as I did he opened his eyes and I saw him struggle to get up. It looked as though his legs were sore, and his arms had given up. “Arre, get up boy!” I exclaimed, trying to mask the sense of disgust that gnawed on my insides. 

“I’m sorry sir, but I was tired and the weather isn’t doing me any justice,” mumbled the boy, his voice raspy and his accent thick. I looked at the boy, he seemed young. I noticed how his dulling thin hair clung to his neck in curls. And how his t-shirt and pants were decorated with holes.

“Tell me, boy,” I said, my voice firm, “How old are you?” 

“Eleven sirs.” My eyes widened. Eleven?... I have a daughter at home at that age. “Have you always lived on the streets boy?” I asked him, taking a bottle out of my bag and handing it to him. The boy looked me in the eyes and smiled as he took the bottle out of my hands. I watched as he drank the water. It was apparent he was thirsty, he savored every drop as they fell against his dry, cracked lips. 

The boy put the bottle down and rubbed his mouth, “Thank you, sir! And no, I haven’t lived here my entire life, I ran away from an orphanage a few months ago,” he then laughed to himself and said, “It’s hard to keep track of time when you’re on the streets, sir. Living on the streets can be harsher than some would think!” 

I nodded and smiled, but a feeling of guilt and pity silently and regretfully nagged at me. “Wait, why did you run away?” 

I asked the boy, “Because, sir, they made it very obvious that I wasn’t needed or wanted.” he whispered, his voice becoming softer, and his eyes traveled to a bruise that traveled down the length of his bony leg. There was a moment of silence that was accompanied by the chatter of the locals behind us, and the persistent sounds of traffic. I looked down at my hands, hoping to seem nonchalant, but I couldn’t help but notice the difference between the two of us. As an eleven-year-old, the greatest of my worries would have been hoping my amma hadn’t noticed the missing 5 rupee note, but this boy’s greatest worry was hoping he didn’t die of hunger or thirst. My feelings must have been apparent on my face because the boy broke the silence and remarked,

 “Oh sir don’t worry about me, I’m not alone! See, my name Rahu means star, so I’m not alone. Look up sir, the stars are with me!” I looked at Rahu, the humid winds now tousled his hair as the trees now swayed and the birds began to sing once more. Rahu sat there, looking at the stars his face lit up by the light of the moon. Each stroke of dirt on his face, each scar on his legs and arms marked his efforts, that were sometimes gone in vain. 

“Rahu,” the boy looked at me, “why don’t we go and have some bhel?” I watched as his face lit up like the stars he calls his friends. And that night, Rahu left the streets with not only a full stomach but a home too.