I was sitting by the window, watching the rain. It was beautiful. The green cover around, the nice, gentle, wet breeze. The swaying trees. Felt a satisfaction, a sense of peace, just sitting there watching n doing nothing. It is then that I saw her, and my sense of peace was lost somewhere like the tiny droplets that are lost when they touch the earth.
She had this plastic sheet over her which she must have thought would protect her from being wet. She had definitely not thought enough. She must be 11. Her name is Jyoti. I know it because she works with her mother in our society. Her mother is what we call a 'bai' here- A maid who cleans the houses and utensils of many households. Today she was alone as her mother had taken ill. She lives in a 'jhuggi'(a small shack kind of cottage made of, well, anything that you may get for free) near here. I pass the place everyday when I walk to my office bus stand. Mind you, its a pathetic existence.
She was crossing the road when a plush BMW came down the road. Oblivious of lower mortals the richie richs inside were totally enjoying their booze and the din they call music. Though she saved herself from being made into mince meat under the wheels of the powerful four wheeler, she couldn't save herself from the mud and the filth that the sparkling sedan displaced from the road and on everything and everyone around. The poor waif was covered with the filth before she even knew what happened. Her face registered various expressions in those few moments. First the alarm at sighting the car rushing towards her, then the panic to save herself, then a split second of relief and then the dismay after looking at the condition of what may be the only dress that she has. It was this particular expression that sent me reeling into an oblivion. The oblivion of thoughts and questions, the one of doubts and sheer hopelessness.
The ardent and critical question that troubles my mind is what would be the poor child be thinking, what must she be dreaming, what reasons must she be giving to her own self for her dire existence. Would it be easy for her to work more than most of the men in our society, eat lesser than most of the toddlers here and sleep with probably more thoughts, more dreams and more troubles about tomorrow than probably most of the people on the earth. What kind of relationship must she be sharing with a father who not only abuses and beats her but also doesn't allow her to go to school just so that she works and earn him money for his country liquor? Or with the mother who she thinks she knows but does all that she cannot understand. She has younger siblings, a team of 4 kids who are but hungry mouths for her. Hungry mouths who cry out their needs at nights disallowing her a hard earned sleep even. But she does think and dream about them too. What she doesn't know is the drunkard who without thinking out of frustration made her mother bear all these minions, thinks of employing them too (mind you employing might be too sophisticated a word for the things that small kids do in the streets, eateries and everywhere else in India) for his 'necessities'.
I kept on thinking until the time that I was not able to, anymore. The only thought that concluded my chain that day was whether there really was any God that looked upon the earth? Could he look at the fate of this kid, her everyday tribulations which were many more than those that I could even think of. The kid named 'Jyoti' meaning the flame of light, who was all out facing the challenges of this cursed stormy world and trying to etch out, to earn things we dont even consider trivial. These thoughts that I had on that rainy day triggered a tiny drizzle in my eyes too. Here I was wiping the bead of tears and afraid to think further and there, in the rain, by the street, Jyoti casually brushed away the mud on her dress and started walking down the road, to face the storm of life once again.
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