The Balloon Seller

The Balloon Seller

4 mins
8.8K


I first laid my eyes on the balloon seller on a windy night, when I dropped something on my way home from work.

We dream about growing up quickly and escape our 'dominating' childhood; however, humans don't always know what they want. The ten year old balloon seller hadn't even caught a glimpse into the years where mischief is supposed to be a boy's second nature. His future was never going to be handed over to him on a silver platter. Being the son of a mother battling cancer and an alcoholic father, he found himself on the merciless streets, clad in a moth-eaten shirt and shots, nothing on his feet to protect himself from the harsh forces of nature with a thick stick in his already calloused hands. Tied to the stick with a thread was his small collection of helium balloons. There were no pictures or lights on them like other balloon sellers had, but instead were drab and covered with a fine layer of grime. Yet his undying will to get his mother cured was what pushed him off of the stone-cold floor he slept on and walk to various populous locations without the aid of an auto rickshaw.

Discovering a comfortable stone to sit on, he watched the people who walked past him, mesmerised by the different human natures. From little girls in satin frocks, to distinguished men in crisp and boys in football jerseys, the innocent black orbs absorbed in a lot of life in the seven hours he sat for. Sometimes he would walk around, pressing his button-shaped nose against shops' windows with the lingering smell of Colin, until the assistants would chase him away with a broomstick, afraid he would repel the customers. He could never make any friends, and his only constant companion was a swarm of flies.

On the good days, he would find a half-empty bottle of water and a couple of potato crisps, either on the road or in the dustbins outside malls and departmental stores. On the bad days however, he would have to resort to water from fountains in various societies or dry rotis lying in polythene bags on the ground. Nonetheless, both types had something in common. The little man (for he never got the opportunity to be a boy) would watch other fortunate children his age walk around, splashing litres of water on each other, licking mouth-watering ice creams and gorging on the tangy street-food of Mumbai. He could never pluck up the courage to walk up to one of them and beg for something, for he lowered his eyes under their scrutinising gaze. His heart would break when children were pulled away from him by frowning mothers, who were convinced that he was a kleptomaniac.

At around six thirty, when the office rush began and afternoon school children dispersed, the balloon seller would walk through the polluting fumes, knocking on the windows of cars. Mostly, their drivers would be on their phones, while fathers would respectfully shake their heads, turning a deaf ear to the pleas of their children. Sometimes, rude taxi drivers, chewing betel leaf and cursing the woebegone child, would roll down the window and spit out just in front of his feet. By the time he reached the gravelly stone, sweat would have left black marks on his face, the saline liquid having mixed with black particles. When he reached home, his mother would be in the same lifeless position as she was in when he left, gasping for a breath of fresh air in the atmosphere that held a strong stench of alcohol.

He had to force the few pieces of a stray cabbage, that had rolled off the costermonger's cart, into her mouth, before falling into a restless sleep. There was no point in him praying, because none of his dreams ever came true. The situation he was in could not get any worse, and almost every night, he wished that he had never been born. However, it seemed that God had listened to this wish of his.

The next day, as he was crossing the street, all he could ponder about was how unfair and cruel life had been. Maybe this was why a trucked rammed into him in just a matter of seconds. As his lifeless, pale body now lay on the road, one could easily see the ghost of a smile on his face. This was his only blessing.


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