Babuji

She was there every day on Ashwin’s way to office, too loud to be unnoticed, too commonplace to be remembered. She used to sit a few yards away from the metro, in sun during whitish winter mornings of Delhi and in the shade of a tree for the rest of the year. She used to cry out to people for a few rupees, a baby either playing around her, eating or simply sleeping in her laps. She used to always ask for the child and his welfare. Ashwin wondered sometimes if the kid was even related to her remotely. He never gave anything other than a condescending glance.

One day she was not there, conspicuous by lack of her definitive presence for the eyes and ears. Ashwin was not bothered, but simply curious. Illness? Then, he remembered a man trying to get her off her usual seat last evening. She was not even replying or protesting. A man was shouting at her and asking her to leave the place immediately. He was rude and extremely curt. Ashwin was wondering if he was an official who was doing her duty or simply an irritated commuter who had had enough. Also, he observed that the girl was keenly looking at the shoes of the man, particularly the orange strings that were sewn to the sole.

‘Did you get the clothes Babuji’

‘No. Not today. Will get you tomorrow. Have you had anything to eat?’

‘Yes sir’

‘Okay. I have to leave now…’

Ashwin remembered a broken conversation between the girl and a person whose face he had not seen. A good Samaritan, he thought and moved on lost between his thoughts of home and office.

Ashwin started to conjure up a story.

The girl was intently looking at the shoes of the man. She did not remember anything else. It was too dark the previous night as she was gathering her stuff and money collected throughout the day. A man came up to him and talked to him about promised clothes. He took her to a corner and offered him a hundred rupee note. She was surprised. She extended her tentative hand to take the note. The man grabbed her hand and asked her to come with him. As the girl refused and pulled back her hand, he came closer and grabbed her by both hands. He offered more money – thousand rupees and tried more force. Then he tried brutal force and no money. The child was screaming and crying, simply hungry, not too sure of what was happening. The girl was on the ground and the man had her by the throat, trying to avoid any sound, though there was no one at this point in time. Her face was pressed against his shoes, which has orange strings sewn at the sole.

Few days later, the girl was still staring at similar shoes with orange strings. She did not confront the man. She did not shout, or protest. She simply walked away. Who would be interested in what happened to her, who would believe and why. She was rather happy that she did not have to have another child to carry around.