by Vani Viswanathan
On my second day at my first job – a reporter covering the neighbourhood beat – I set about beaming with pride at the important job thrust on me and the power of the pen in effecting change in the society.
After walking around, I spotted a little boy, probably seven or eight years old. He wore rags, and was picking recyclables from an overflowing dustbin in the city. I straightened myself up, decided to start my writing by focusing on the pitiable state of a tomorrow’s citizen. I went up to him, said ‘Hi!’ and pulled out my press ID, to show that I represented one of the easily identifiable, most popular dailies in town. He looked at me, nonplussed. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Can I interview you?’ The boy looked at me up and down, looked at my press ID, and agreed. He pointed to a nearby roadside tea stall. ‘How about we go there and talk over a glass of tea?’ I was taken by surprise, but agreed nevertheless. We went to the stall, where he ordered tea, a masala vada, and a pack of biscuits, and settled down. ‘Ok, let’s begin.’
‘Why are you a ragpicker?’ I began. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in school? Are your parents not letting you study? Don’t you know that the government offers everyone free education in primary government schools?’
The boy took his time to finish the Parle-G biscuit he was eating and took a sip of tea. ‘My father,’ he began – I whipped my notepad out and began to take notes – ‘… beat my mother very badly one day. Some three years ago. She died the next day of hemorrhaging. After she died, when he realized there was no one to cook and clean for him, he beat my sister till he nearly broke her arm.’ I paused, struck by the utter nonchalance the boy was narrating his story with. ‘He came to vent his drunken anger on me next, but I stabbed him in the stomach with the knife my sister was chopping vegetables with. And without tending to him while he was bleeding, without bothering to look at my sister who was crying in pain, I ran away from home. Of course, what could I do in the city but beg or do this? I chose this – at least I’m earning my upkeep.’ I had to put my pen down as my hands were shaking. The boy saw that.
‘Any more questions?’
I shook my head, dumbfounded. The boy stood up, said ‘Thanks for the tea and biscuits,’ and left the place. Staring stupidly about me, I finally went up to pay for the tea, feeling utterly defeated.
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