The little hump-backed urchin… an outsider even among outsiders, stood peering into my rickshaw stuck in traffic near Bandra Station for twenty minutes already. His grubby hand extended listlessly, his eyes morose and down-cast. “I’m not your bloody aunty… Smile you bugger. What gives you the right to just give up and stand there waiting on pity.” He looks up he doesn’t understand but he is encouraged with my talking so with much more guttural gusto gives it an encore, “Aaaaaaaaahnteeeeee.” Then he turns down his mouth and pecks at his stomach and mouth with his hand.
It was my fault really. I should’ve shut up. The rickshaw stopped ten minutes from the station. Technically ten minutes. With the traffic and the people and the cows and the traffic it would have taken at least an hour to navigate through. With my convent schooled, soft excuse me…sorry.. please excuse me… one minute please.. thank-you, thank-yous… And the heat was baking my brains into custard anyway. Where the hell were the rains? It was bloody July already. So I sat. This is why we take so long to progress. Who can do anything in this heat? I lit a cigarette aimlessly and leaned my head to rest against the wall of the rickshaw.
Suddenly the richshaw’s driver tittered.
I looked and my eyes rested on Quasimodo. His hump oddly compelling and no one could see me so I looked. The children were poking him… taunting him. One went to bite his leg. That’s when it burst out involuntarily. “Stoppit!” Within seconds the little tormentors swarmed my rickshaw. I turned blind eyed and thin lipped. They gave up within five minutes. The heat was too much even for them and they scattered listlessly meandering and converged without words like lab rats on the hump-backed boy, whispering. I wiped the sweat from my upper lip and…
Then… this. “Aunty naaaaa..” He turns down his mouth so far a laugh bubbles up from inside me. His eyes look up at me and for one minute he is just a little boy… not a guilt I have to pay to go away, not society’s nagging shame… not a problem. “Smile” I try not barking this time. And he does. His broken, twisted cruel joke of a body defied. “Wait… No… no paisa…” I reach into my bag and pull out a bottle of cold water. Well cool. And a small bag of peppermints.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the other children crane their necks and squawk. He puts the sweets in his pocket and takes the water and drinks a little before carefully capping it. He looks at me. No thank you. I nod. He nods. Then swaggers back to his friends and begins doling out the sweets like a little don…doling out a couple of kicks for good measure now and then. But the water… the water he keeps out of reach. The rickshaw clatters alive and they’re gone.
Two weeks later and I’m stuck in traffic again. The rains have come. It is pouring. Why is it so bloody wet? Nothing is moving. This is why we take so long to progress. Who can do anything in these rains? I light a cigarette, leaning back and inching towards the middle of the seat. A cool, fine spray mists everything… Then I see him… Quasimodo. He is traipsing barefoot blithely, hopping from the island to the puddles below then back up… His little ugly, mistaken body dancing in the rains with the joy of birds… He is alone this time… no friends, no shirt. But he still has the bottle… And it is full.
– Una D’Cunah
Two weeks later and I’m stuck in traffic again. The rains have come. It is pouring. Why is it so bloody wet? Nothing is moving. This is why we take so long to progress. Who can do anything in these rains? I light a cigarette, leaning back and inching towards the middle of the seat. A cool, fine spray mists everything… Then I see him… Quasimodo. He is traipsing barefoot blithely, hopping from the island to the puddles below then back up… His little ugly, mistaken body dancing in the rains with the joy of birds… He is alone this time… no friends, no shirt. But he still has the bottle… And it is full.
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