Skip to main content

lost (and not found)

I was walking along the pavement when I felt somebody pulling my shirt from behind. I turned round to see a little girl, hardly in her fourth, indicating to give her some alms. She was gesturing to be hungry. My one rupee or two rupees coin would solve her hunger and possibly many other problems associated with poverty. This was the same girl I saw everyday when I used to pass in my motor cycle. I had some work in that place, I was going to fetch my bike and head for the home.

As a matter of fact, I never give alms to children. That’s my insignificant effort to deter them from begging. But I know, many people do. Actually most of us do. And thus trapping them to begging all their life.

Nevertheless, I decided to offer her some food. There was a bakery-stall nearby. She had a dusty, torn doll at hand. One leg missing. Probably one eye was also at a loss. May be a castaway from a ‘rich man’s daughter’. I guess the doll was happy, if it had a heart. Because this little girl was hugging tight the rag at her bossom. Like a motherbird.

I offered her anything she liked. She was all round-eyes! She was repeatedly looking at me; not believing that somebody was actually offering her something to choose. Beggars cannot be choosers. Probably she has heard it already. And have understood by now.

She chose to have a pink biscuit. The one that you know is laced with cheap untested food colours. As an adult, you would always stay away from it, but to a baby, it’s irresistible.

After she finished eating it, she smiled coyly at me. Not sure if asking one more would be wise enough. I assured her to go on and try one more item. Since we both didn’t understand each others' language, it was all gestures.

She pointed her finger to me. I immediately understood that she is now depending upon my judgment. That pink biscuit didn’t taste great. Must be. I offered her rose-cake, which she devoured with great satisfaction. All the way I was looking at her gleaning eyes. She was very happy. So was I. she was looking at me furtively time-to-time. Whenever our eyes met she was smiling coyly. But there were flashes of pure bliss in her eyes, may be gratitude. I am not very good in reading signals of the eyes.

I noticed, despite her dirty clothes and appearance, she is a baby with exceptional beauty. Her hair is thick. Teeth are perfect, shoulders are slender and fingers elongated. This is what we call the hands of a sitar artist. She is fair and has a perfect nose. Very unlikely she is from South India. Her features doesn’t match that of South Indians. But probably she has been raised here. Because she was speaking the local language. Who knows she might have been from a good family. You get to see photos of one year old missing in newspaper almost everyday. Who knows, her parents, may be in Delhi are still waiting for her. Asking about her parents would be futile though.

She was satisfied by now. Her tiny stomach filled. With the help of a local, I asked her where she lives, she pointed towards North. Having known her address, I asked her whom she stays with. She said mother! And lo, her mother was present there, right in front of us. Waiting for her chance to be fed in the bakery.

As soon as I looked at her, she started doing all sorts of antics, as if she has not eaten for years. She was staring at the glass display like a greedy and looking at me in a hapless manner. Yeah, I am the savior.

She was dark, actually charcoal-black. Stout and had square, short fingers. The kind of fingers I hate from the core of my heart. No way that she was her mother. I asked her (with the help of the local guy) where from she got her. She said she was her mother. We coaxed her and told her to say the truth. But she was adamant. And hungry!

I decided not to give her anything, not a single paisa. She followed for a good distance and finally gave up the chase. I think she uttered some curse too.

I came home. And after some brain-storming with my cousin and her friends, decided to ADOPT the girl! Or at least, making an arrangement under which she get proper care and a proper education. I will pay for her living and education. I would admit her in a good orphanage. I was sure that the girl did not belong to that woman. And I was also sure, as is the fate of these girls; they will be forced into the flesh trade as soon as they are twelve. They will be sold.

So why not ‘sell’ me. We decided to offer the mother five thousand rupees to give the kid to us. Somebody suggested informing the police before I do anything. Valid point! I had to agree. The whole night we devised the plan. I was an overnight hero.

Morning, the same time, I went to that place only to find a different person replacing the girl. It was a boy of around the same age. I searched for my little girl the whole day, across the city. Asking everybody. But she and her ‘mother’ were not to be found.

It’s three months now. And I am sure, she must be somewhere in India...begging, clutching another piece of torn doll and dreaming. It’s a huge country. Many cities. No chance of getting her. No way.

To narrow down my search options, I have to wait ten years. There are innumerable cities. Whereas, the number of brothels are not that many.


Vincent said…
Your story is a gem! It may have faults but they certainly do not show themselves on a first joyful reading. You have a sure touch in tales on the borderline between anecdote and fiction. You illuminate in minimum words the feeling of life in India, the deception, beauty, pathos, ugliness; the story being teasingly ambiguous on several levels.

All India is in your story. You make it real for this foreigner.
Ace of Spades said…
nice one ghetu. id much rather read these than the nonsense about the "pretty office beauties" that you are so adamant to write about. btw,i have started again.
Shuv said…
its take a lot of courage..i know. i tried once, came quite close then chickened out.
preeti said…
love you for this post. may that "goodness" never change.
and heh, don't generalise so..."She is fair and has a perfect nose. Very unlikely she is from South India. Her features doesn’t match that of South Indians."
Ghetufool said…
nope i didn't generalise. but you can say when one is from north and when one is from south. of course there are exceptions. but they are exceptions.

personally, frankly speaking, i love southies, they are the most beautiful in india.

i am also not sure what i would have done if i found that child.
sourov said…
ghetu da superb make sonalam khub pochondo hoeche
kaushik said…
Ghetu: Its been one secret desire to change the quality of life of atleast 5 persons during my lifetime.

I tried to it but have not been successfully as I have not been passionate enough about it.

I know this next door neighbour who adopted this sweeper's son. Paid for his clothes, food and clothing but they dont stick around. He is now working in the local kirana store.

I tried a lot to get our pumpman's son in school but then he ran away. He says he was being victimised. I dont know what the story is but even that effort has failed.

So my in in 10 years I have a zero scorecard.
What a story! What an amazing intent! Very moving.Sad.

But I have short fingers and I would hate to be hated for it.
Ghetufool said…
have you started a blog? give me the link, your profile is not available.

i know you are a wonderful human being. well, you definitely changed my life a little bit. at least it invigorated my belief that good people still live in this world and that you get refreshed and rejuvinated by just simply chatting with them love you. now you can cross one from your list.

i didn't say i hate short fingures. what i said was short fingure with a perfect square head. anyway, i said i hate those fingers, but not the human being. so cheers.
ohh i gt connected wid u smewhr :D
very happy aftr reading this post!
sharing a link

take cre

Popular posts from this blog

Let it rain hard

About a dozen years back, I started writing blog posts out of sheer boredom in office. The work was repetitive and the bosses were menacing. Not the fault of bosses as much as the systems put in place. It was a real-time world and you perish in seconds or become a hero. No, I was not a stock market trader, but close. I was perhaps in deep agony. I had left my family members, my root, my friends and my culture. Those years were the most important in my life, the early twenties. I was free for the first time. Free to do whatever I wanted to do. It was a lot of pent-up sexual energy really looking for an avenue to be released. I found my moksha in creativity, especially as my office colleagues started appreciating my writing, albeit with no hint of grammar in it. Slowly strangers came to my blog and I visited theirs and we became friends. And then I started connecting with people far away from my place, across oceans. With one I became friends for life – Ian Vincent Mulder. But that’s ano…

On Mithi

I became a father on 18 November, 2014. At that moment when fatherhood embraced me, perhaps I should have been elated, jumping up and down and doing all sort of activities that new fathers do, at least, that's what most sane people do. But nothing of that sort happened to me. When I heard my baby's voice, first like an angry cat and then a mild wail wafting across the operation theatre to the waiting area where we all were pacing up and down, the first thought that hit me was how was my wife? It was a C-section and she was partially unconscious. I should not have read Internet too much, for I was reading all sorts of horror stories, of mothers not waking up or recovering etc. I was petrified as I was not hearing my wife's voice. The doctors and sisters inside the operation theater must have been very busy with their other procedures. In fact, after bringing out the baby from the womb, they were busy closing the cut, I later got to know.
The realisation of becoming a fathe…

The Sculptor's Tale

(Note to readers ... mainly Ian, who is the only one who reads this blog >> i just finished writing this in office. didn't even re-read it after writing, forget editing. Expect a leaner/fatter and better written version, if my mood permits.)
Keep your hands busy, said my father every time I used to lean against the tree to catch my breath. Keep your hands busy you idiot, keep your hands busy, don’t let your head decide for you. Keep your hands busy, he would coax me to get working. And so I would again start chiselling the chunk of rock, along the lines my father, a master sculptor, had already outlined. But I would still dream with eyes wide open. When the hammer used to fall so gently yet firm on the chisel, I used to dream of the cities and the grand mansions. I was not good in sculpting, yet I wanted to be the greatest sculptor in this world. I wanted to be honoured by my king. I wanted to be the subject for which kings wage wars against each other. I was a dreamer, I …