Freedom is a kite

I always found the little urchin at the Khan Market-Lodi Road intersection and he had a chirpy presence that was compelling. Weaving through the line of cars with considerable dexterity, he was nimble despite the crutches and had an endearing smile as he enthusiastically cleaned the windshield. Since this area was close to the home-children’s school-office circuit, I saw him fairly often. Gradually he recognised the car and me and there was the occasional conversation. Sunil did not know his age but was around 10 years and was happy to accept the money one gave him but happier still when we gave him food — sandwiches, fruit and such like. There was a vague reference to a chacha but we never got beyond that for he was scampering all the time on his crutches.

Our daughter Swara whose abiding concern for the poor and the homeless is exasperating soon formed a bond with the little fellow. She was keen to help him read and write but Sunil had neither the time nor inclination. His was a busy schedule. He went to the local temple on certain days and helped as a parking attendant. His disabled status ensured that he received generous alms from the devotees who thronged the shani mandir on Saturdays. On Fridays at lunch time he was the eager beaver at the mosque on Pandara Road and again the munificence of the faithful did not disappoint him. With a sly grin he conceded that on Fridays he changed his name to Salim. Basically he had imbibed the essence of marketing by sheer gut and instinct.

One winter morning I found Sunil aka Salim at the traffic lights — a cigarette dangling from his lips. I pulled the car at the side and admonished him. A child like you should not be smoking. His companion, a much older boy, looked at me in a sullen and defiant manner. Go to hell, said the body language of both kids. As I drove away, I thought I heard Sunil explain me as “ganju bahut bak-bak karta hai …”

Suddenly, he disappeared. Enquiries revealed he had gone to the village. A few months later, the boy was back. He was less communicative. Life became more frenzied for everyone and Sunil dropped out of our lives. I next saw the familiar face on August 15 — Independence Day. It was post lunch and the roads were deserted. But the boy I saw was racing down the side of the road with a tri-colored kite streaming behind him. Sunil, I shouted. He recognised the Fiat and streaked into the one-way street thinking that I would not follow him. My National Defence Academy days came back. I threw caution to the winds and drove straight after him. He was cornered. You blighter, why did you run away? The guilt was obvious — no crutches. It was an old story but Sunil was not fazed. Today is azadi day, he told me cockily, adding, “aaj to sab kay liye chutti hai”.