Tattered little man-child
He was sitting in the shade of a grey junction box, tiny hands clutching two brightly coloured ear-bud packets. As we passed, he got up and raised them at us, entreaty writ all over his face. He wore an oversized shirt that could have easily passed for a floor swab and his nose was running. His hair was light and his face was rosy-brown. He might have been a girl with his beautiful eyes.
The father sat on the pavement nearby in the hot sun. Spread before him were the tools of his trade. An assortment of carved henna blocks on a grimy white cloth. He was thin and dark and small. He motioned to his blocks and asked if we wanted henna applied on our palms. He had a voice that seemed to come from a faraway place.
My friend was interested, so we stopped. She squatted and held out a hand. He selected a few blocks from the cloth and opened a plastic container beside him. In what looked like an inky stamp pad, he pressed down a block and transported the design to her palm. Bit by bit, pink turned into brown and lovely shapes appeared magically like footprints on wet sand.
He had different blocks for every part. A big one for the inside, a narrow one for the fingers and a tiny one, the size of a bottlecap, for the gaps. With expert twists he created an intricate design that took on the ornateness of a traditional bridal decoration. A cupola of riches in a vacuum of want. My friend smiled in delight at the fragrant tattoo.
I stood watching them as the small boy hovered around my knees; packets held high above his head. His face was soft and his eyes gentle, like a tiny kitten’s. I dug into my pockets for spare change. Not enough to buy his ear-bud packets but enough for a sweet or two. He accepted and showed me the packets again. I said no. His hands didn’t waver. He was offering them free. The peddler had changed into a toddler. He was sharing a treat. I shook my head. He bent down and picked up one of his father’s henna blocks. I looked at him in silence. The block was too big for his tiny fingers to hold. His face had broken from the impassive street child’s to a baby’s— hesitant, generous. Sorrow engulfed me... Then it slowly left.
eom///
deccan herald