It was another cold orphaned day you encounter in the winter of the northern part of the country, streets enveloped in fog and all movement labored. At about noon sun showed its mercy and lit the sky with warm tender rays. I decided to get out of my damp dark room and go to the nearby park where the sun was bright and air fresh. It was an isolated spot on the far end of the park where rows of bougainvilleas were planted next to solitary neem tree. A dog had occupied the place so I had to shoo it away. The weary dog grumbled in protest but my persistence made it get up, lazily survey the scene and vacillate on whether to go back to its sleep, I gave indications of firmness in my resolve to evict it so it finally ambled reluctant few meters, all the while giving me an accusing look. There it surveyed the ground, thought of settling down but instead rotated the spot for some moment. Then as if by some centrifugal force slumped on the ground and instantly went to nap.
I was carrying Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful, a book written almost three decades but still as influential. Some books have capacity to change your worldview, this book is one of them. I was immediately absorbed in the exciting ideas the chapters unfolded, writes Schumacher “…the development of production and the acquisition of wealth have become the highest goals of the modern world in relation to which all other goals, no matter how much lip service may still be paid to them, have come to take second place. The highest goal requires no justification; all secondary goals have finally to justify themselves in terms of the service their attainment renders to the attainment of the highest. This is the philosophy of materialism, and it is this philosophy which is being challenged by the events. There has never been a time, in any society in any part of the world, without its sages and teachers to challenge materialism and plead for different order of priorities”. I thought about these lines and agreed to what he had written, yes the catastrophic events right from global warming or financial crisis to opportunism in daily dealings can be traced to these. He continues “Today, however, this message reaches us not solely from sages and saints but actual course of physical events”. How true, I could not stop marvel at his insight. A chilly breeze shifted my concentration and I realized that sun had moved and I was in tree shade, so altered my position so as to get maximum sun rays, and continued reading “needless to say, wealth, education, research, and many other things are needed for civilization, but what is most needed today is a revision of the ends which these means are meant to serve”. I was immersed in the book for a long time must been an hour or two, I was shaken out of it by a meek almost whispering voice, I tried to shrug it but was insistent.
“Hello sir do you listen to me?” It was a boy in his pre-teens wearing a torn grimy khaki shirt and a black oversized short, he looked severely malnourished. Clearly he was trying to catch my attention for some time as he had placed his belonging (small cloth bundle) in a safe corner next to the tree and had come quite near me in order to get noticed. The moment I raised my face towards him he moved back almost as a reflex action. I dismissed him as a beggar and showed some exaggerated annoyance and pretended that I was busy reading and therefore he shouldn’t be disturbing me and that if he tried again my reaction would be much severe. He discerned my intentions and said with a raised voice “no sir I am not a beggar. I don’t beg”. His belligerent voice gave indication of a boy who had experienced rough side of life more than his tender age suggested but has not lost self respect, and so would resist any attempt on what he thought was a dishonor. I though was still dismissive, maybe a ploy to get attention- a new way to beg, I thought.
“No I don’t beg I don’t want your money. I earn for myself. I don’t beg”. He asserted. I gathered maybe I was not dealing with ordinary situation here and so closed my book and turned my attention to him.
"What do you want?” I asked.
“I saw you reading, you can read and write. I want you to help me. Will you help me?” the boy said.
“What is it about?” I asked getting cynical.
He took out a neatly folded paper from his pocket and a blue colored pen-that shined and looked new.
“I want you to write a letter for me”. He said pushing the paper and pen towards me.
“To whom” I inquired.
“You write” he insisted.
After a momentary disinterest I took the paper, that seemed to have been torn from a ledger book, and used my book for support. I asked him to sit down but he refused.
“Alright then” I said attempting a smile to make him comfortable.
He began “dear father you have to come and take me back. They make me work all the time. They are not nice as you told me. I have to work from morning six to night ten, my finger hurts with sewing all day, it has swollen. You have to come and take me back dear father. They beat me up if I don’t get it right. I promise to do all work at home, help you in the field and never complain. Even if you beat me I won’t cry and do all the work. I will eat less but I want to be home. Come and take me back dear father. They beat me all the time and give stale food to eat. I sleep with others in small room where there are twenty like me. They don’t let us out. They are no good. Please take me back from here. They are no good. A big man with stick beat us on the legs if we don’t do the work fast, my legs still hurt father. We sit all day and sew and sew, it hurts all the time. I am tired take me home father. I am tired, I promise to be nice. Take me home father”. He started to sob, I tried to reach him but he shrugged away. He seemed to have lost trust on people. He wiped his tears with back of his palm, and appeared shade embarrassed as if disappointed with himself for exposing his frailty. He straightened and pretended nothing had happened.
“I am going home” he said, reaching for his bundle of cloth.
“You left the place where you work?” I asked trying to engage him.
“Yes I escaped yesterday night. I slept under that bench whole night” he explained.
“It must been very cold and dark. You not afraid?” I asked, in the meantime contemplating how to help the boy, I should call up the authority, no that wouldn’t be wise I decided, or maybe I should call NGO like the one run by Swami Agnivesh who take care of rescued child labor victims.
“I am not afraid” said the boy meekly. I felt a surge of sympathy for him. It must been terrible to sleep through the night in a strange place, in a dangerous city where children go missing all the time. Some pushed to flesh trade while others are killed for their organs. It was a treacherous place and a boy like him was an easy target.
“How will you go home?” I asked with a growing concern.
“I will go. Will you post the letter for me?” he asked.
“What’s the address?” I enquired, realizing maybe I could be able to use the information.
“Gorakgarh village. Yes Gorakgarh village to my father Prakash”. He said and added “post it now” and started to walk to pick up his cloth bundle all the while looking around furtively.
“Where are you going?” I asked anxiously.
“Home. They will catch me and lock me up again. They will beat me. I have to go home to my mother”. He said impatient with himself.
“I can take you there”. I said to gain his confidence, an urge for vigilance on his behalf afflicted me.
“No you cannot. I will go on my own”. He was getting suspicious.
“Atleast I can come with you to the railway station. You know where it is?. You know which train will take you to Gorakgarh?” I asked.
“I will find it. Don’t need help” he said, his fragile confidence seems to have come from dependence on self in cruelties he faced, his assurance was self justifying, an act of primal assertion of his being.
My attempts on gaining trust was being repelled, I thought to reason with him and was contemplating what line to take when suddenly, like an animal sensing an immediate danger, he ran. Momentarily taken aback and puzzled I was immobilized, decided to follow him. He adeptly jumped the railings and darted into the busy street, in minutes he was on the other side. Before vanishing into the crowd he turned back for a moment. I saw a glimpse of amazing tenderness in the boy’s face that hastily transformed into fright, soon he dissolved into other faces.
My eyes fell on the empty sheet of paper and the blue pen. The sheet fluttered in the air for a while as if trying to extricate itself, a gush of wind blew it away into the vacant sky.
