The memory of a beggar child, Poonam Nandi [red scrolls of magic TXT] 📗

I was a little girl then not more then 3-4 years old. Father was posted in Chandbali , a small town in interior Orissa, near the Mahanadi River .

I was in Class 1. In those days there were no KG and Pre KG ! School had a big play ground , tiled roofs and Dhoti clad teachers . It was an alien world. It was my father’s first posting after his training in Dehradun Institute of Indian Forest Service. Understandably after Dehradun , Chandbali was a culture shock. I could not even speak Oriya then.

A peon was appointed to take me to the school. I was a plump child. Every day at 9.30am he would make me sit on the iron rod between the seat and the handle in his dilapidated cycle and I would cling to the handle with all my might, close my eyes whenever the cycle jumped on pot holes and managed to reach school with a sore backside but without ever toppling down from that ancient machine.

In the evening the same peon came to fetch me and again my adventure on that torture machine would be repeated all over again!

One day when the school got over, to my utter joy I found the peon waiting for me without the cycle. Finally that mini dinosaur had fallen apart. The peon was sad –I was not!

He took the school bag from me and started walking. We would take the shortcut. The shortcut was about 10mins walk on the road across the main market then we would stroll down to a vast ground that separated my house from the market. The weekly haat was held here every Thursday. I knew this ground well, On Thursday evenings I would accompany my mother and a peon and come to this market for fresh fish and vegetables. There would be lines and lines of fish mongers with their fresh catch from the Mahanandi . Separate lines were marked for vegetable, grain , saari and bangle sellers.

It must have been a Friday, the ground was empty save some stray dogs , baggers and daily laborers’ families who lived in the tattered makeshift tents , which the shopkeepers left behind till next week’s haat . The place showed all signs of vigorous trade activity the day before - It was littered with leftovers. Scattered rotten vegetables, grains were every where .Paper packets and old torn polythene bags were softly flying in the gentle wind blowing from the river. A pungent smell wafted from the place fish and chicken were sold.

I was looking around for the rows where bangles were sold. Our peon had taught me how to make colorful chains from broken bangle pieces. It’s really easy. All you have to do is light a candle, show the middle of a broken bangle to it, in no time the glass will melt and you can form a closed loop. Then you put another broken bangle though the loop, heat the new piece and when it melts close the loop again. The more varied and colorful the pieces are the more beautiful will be the chain. I decided to collect as many pieces as possible when we reached there and as I had expected that place was scattered with beautiful broken pieces discarded by the sellers and the buyers but way too precious for a little girl who had a huge bangle chain to make!!

So I bent down and started picking. There were two pockets in my school uniform. One in the shirt, one in the skirt. They got filled fast. I did not stop, I wanted my fists full as well. Suddenly I saw two tiny black feet beside me and looked up. There he was – a tiny naked beggar child looking at me with wonder, trying to understand what I was doing. I remember thinking -God how thin he was. He had very dry thin brownish hair. Round black eyes and was completely naked save a tiny black thread round his tiny waist. He had that typical bloated tummy you generally see among malnourished street urchins. The peon was shouting my name urging me to make haste, I decided to ignore the child and resumed picking as fast as I could. To my irritation he started picking broken pieces around him. I was irritated and angry, there was always a possibility that he would get some better pieces than me. And as if to prove me right he did pick up a beautiful yellow and white piece. I could not do anything but stare at him with dismay. My fists were full, the peon was shouting again –resignedly I turned to go, when that child spoke “ Ai ne “ *

I looked at him with astonishment – he was smiling with his hands extended towards me. He who had nothing wanted to offer me what was so precious to me . All the time when I was feeling irritated with him fearing competition he was actually picking those pieces for me ---

The realization hit me like a slap. I could feel tears stinging my eyes. I remember feeling more angry. I remember doing a strange thing , I threw away the bangle pieces I was holding and ran away -still smarting from the look of bafflement I saw on that child’s face at my strange action.

I was still crying when we reached home. Father was standing near the gate talking to some staffs. When he saw my crying face, he was immediately concerned. He bent down and scooped me off the ground and with a loving voice asked “ Pagli – what happened? “** I did even a more strange thing –I lied – I said “ a beggar child threw stones at me “ Father laughed- swung me in the air then put me down . “ run along -- big girls do not cry over such small things—“ he shouted behind me . I had ran inside, already feeling secured and happy of my fathers love and acceptance , half forgetting the incident in my excitement to show off my collection to my little brother , who was yet to start school.

For years, whenever I remembered– because strangely enough, I never forgot that incident- I used to feel humiliated. I could not understand why I cried that day and why did I lie afterwards. But now I do.

That child in his innocence and with his natural magnanimity had made me realize who was poorer among us in that empty haat that day. That bagger child had made me feel small and mean ….

For years I had felt ashamed. Now I am a mother and see my little girl going about her life, some times doing gallant things sometimes not so gallant ones. While correcting her mistakes and praising her good deeds handling her jalousies, insecurities, her love and pity I have rationalized my action towards that child so long ago.

I have realized that jealousy, rivalry – these feelings are natural, we all have them. It’s just that when we are kids we are honest enough to show them.

Finally I have forgiven myself and made peace.

After all , long long back I was a little girl too---


* “Hey Take these” in Oriya
** Pagli: Mad girl—a loving way to address a girl child .

Publication Date: 11-21-2010

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