Lesser Human

The road was almost dry, other than the open-mouthed potholes that now resembled small pools of chocolate milk, and an odd pedestrian or two rushing past with still open umbrellas. As I strolled below the gulmohars that unevenly lined the street, their leaves dropping off the final evidence of their recent bath, in the multitude of the unacquainted, I saw a face I recollected but couldn’t place.

The owner of the face was scolding away at a little replica of herself perched like a pot of water, firmly on her little hip - identical curly hair, button-nose and the same round face with a heavy jaw. As she drew nearer, and I could clearly see the whole of her, I stood rooted to the spot, shocked to observe the visibly rotund tummy.

By now she seemed to have done with the admonishing, and the subject looked penitent about whatever it was that had led him into this predicament.

The last few shadows between us moved away and we stood face to face now. As the yellow smile greeted me, I finally found my memory.
This young mother was once a student at the street welfare centre at the Church. The centre was started for the betterment of the children whose families had set up their own society on the foot-paths of our vicinity, and for who their plastic sheeted shanties were home. The centre had classes every Saturday – 2 hour classes; from 10 am to 12 noon. The girls were taught stitching; embroidery; and bead-art; while the boys had lessons in carpentry and handicrafts. Other than this, they were taught basics in formal education – a lot verbal, and a little written.

The centre had opened to 5 anxious children, with the help of 6 eager volunteers, including myself. After the first Saturday, we had another 4 children who joined in, and the week after another 5. Towards the end of the 2nd month the centre was throbbing with 30 children and 10 volunteers. The kids were just like kids – mischievous, unpredictable and a handful to manage. While we were ecstatic about the growing number of attendees at the centre, it was only during the middle of the 2nd month that we learnt the real reason for the splurge – the food distributed at the end of every session; a simple meal of dal and rice, sometimes khichdi, but to these children, this seemed to be quite a feast.

It was at this centre that I had first encountered her, then a kid of about 15, (which would now not make her more than 18) lively and actually quite well mannered. She was a quick learner, I remember, she learnt to spell her name right in the first class itself – ‘S-A-B-I-N-A’. Always the first to be in class, the last in the queue for lunch and the last out of the class. That was the girl I remembered. The day she learned to write her name, she wrapped the fluorescent green plastic rimmed slate with her name written on it with white pencil chalk, in some old newspapers, as if it were a gift she was packing, and scurried off in the rain, holding the slate close to her chest. “Silly girl,” I heard another volunteer remark, “the rain will wash away the name anyway.”

And now before me stood this very girl – a contrasting image to what my memory knew of her. I was hoping my smile would disguise my disappointment, and continued to ask her about herself. She was married, she told me. But, with a wife and kid to feed, and another one on its way soon, her husband figured that the only way out was to abandon them. I asked her how she makes a living now - she says she works as a charwoman in the neighbouring chawls. It doesn’t pay too well, but sometimes the people are generous and give her leftovers and scrap items to sell.

The child on her waist is getting weary of our conversation now and begins to fidget. “He is hungry” – she says, “I have to feed him”. That’s my cue for bidding her an adieu, and yet I can’t seem to walk away without asking her – What about the centre? Why did you leave the centre?

She looks at me confused – “What about the centre?” – she asks – “the centre closed down long back. They said they didn’t have enough teachers.” She turned to go. And then as if on second thought, she turned and said, “Teacher, I want you to know I went there every Saturday till my mother forcefully got me married. Get married, or get sold, she told me. I’m still not sure what’s the difference. But, I just want you to know – I went there every Saturday till then.” As she walked away, a part of me broke.

I left the centre because I had just begun my career. I did not want any distractions then. “The centre doesn’t depend on me alone. There are other volunteers who will take care” – I had justified my decision to my conscience. And yet now as I stood fixated gazing at this one opportunity that had been wasted, I wondered how many others. Would things have been different had I continued? Would the centre have survived?

I slowly retraced my steps towards home, and as the water soaked my being, and flowed down to the drain, I hoped it would carry away with it my shame and remorse.

I walked past the pools of chocolate milk and the eternal gulmohars, feeling much less a human.