When the first few drops of rain hit the dry earth, soft clouds of dust rose from it. Surprisingly the thirst of the earth was quenched so fast that within no time water stood in pools on the gravel path. Rainwater dripped from the lamp-posts and the extended sheds of the shops. The rikshawallas usually thronging the bylanes of CP disappeared. It was business time for the autowallas and their meters stopped working, as stranded passengers were ready to pay any amount to reach their destination as soon as possible. Many others wanted to enjoy the weather over a cup of coffee, so the coffee cafés were teeming with people discussing the weather, the stock market, the day at college, work etc.
The so-called unexpected monsoon meant good business for some but it also meant no business for many. The usual sight of small time venders selling artificial jewelry like trinkets, anklets, rings etc displayed on small cloth-spreads suddenly went missing. The small cloth sellers with no shed but only an open stand with different types of cloths hanging were seen pulling plastic sheets over the vivid colored clothes, preventing them from getting wet. The rain did, in many ways wash away the colors of CP. Now the only colors that could be seen were the black and navy blue plastic sheets so commonly used to cover things from water.
The only sound that broke the noise of the down-pour were the car horns. In no time there was a traffic jam. The wipers of the cars moved so smoothly and effortlessly on the windscreen as if they had been used all summer. The rain worked as a lubricant for the dry human souls, which had become rusted, lazy and lifeless in the long drawn summer. The rain broke the monotony. The rain not only loosened the soil and freshened the leaves but also broke the morbid way of life. It brought with it motion, it spurred everyone into a new kind of activity.
Amidst all the downpour when everyone was trying to adapt to the sudden change something remained static. Even as everyone tried to run into a dry and warm place; there were a few children who continued sitting there on the foot path, as if no rain was falling... as if it was still hot and dry with the sun burning... throwing light on there hopeless and dark future... as if these clouds could do nothing to shut this hopelessness out of their minds. The sun could not melt their iced hearts and frozen looks and the rain fails in making their future fertile and green. These children sit there with a fixed look of misery and plight on their face as if nothing had changed... as if nothing would ever change!
Then something other than the horn breaks the pitter-patter of the rain. "bibi bhagwan ke naam pe kuch de do... do din se kuch nahi khaya hai." These words stumble out of the boy sitting on the footpath from his puckered mouth. This boy with bones and ribs, all that is seen, a skin dark and bare sagging over the skeleton, hair scraggly with mud cakes all over. There he sits on the path on which people walk, give him a look of pity, turn away, and walk on. People pity him saying- " poor boy..." But this thought is also wiped away with the next breeze that follows.
Not very far away from this boy, a little girl is trying to sell candy floss in front of Mc-Donald's. The girl is too young to be standing alone on the footpath when everyone around her is hurrying home, but she has none. As she stops one lady to buy her candy floss, her eager questioning eyes lit up with hope... which fades in less than a moment as the lady tugs her kurta from the girls twig like fingers grip and turns away to leave. A dream is shattered...a flame of hope is snuffed even before it could light-up.
These children are an unwanted part of the posh Connaught Place... but very much a part. Some pity them, some drop a coin in their hands through which no astrologer will be able to make a prediction. May be because there is no prediction to make. Their hopeless futures can be seen clearly. No amount of rainwater is able to wash away the desolate future that awaits them.
They seem to be the permanent feature of the market, whether scorching heat or a rain shower...they continue to sit on the path we walk past, with no roof over their bare heads, hardly more than their bare skin to shield them... these children whose tiny fingers lifeless, left alone in the big world... left to face what we dread even in our heads... left in solitude...! They watch one more monsoon hit the city...people rush past them... they sit there knowing they will also flow by unnoticed just as the rainwater forms a mud stream and flows down the way...first published:July 14, 2006, 11:53 ISTlast updated:July 14, 2006, 11:53 IST
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There were only a few people on the usually crowed Connuaght place. The reason for the thinning crowd was the unexpected rain. Dark and menacing clouds had come out of nowhere with the wind and had covered the blue sky like one massive quilt. This situation had an irony to it. Even as we were waiting for these clouds all summer, when they came they caught us so unaware....so unprepared.
When the first few drops of rain hit the dry earth, soft clouds of dust rose from it. Surprisingly the thirst of the earth was quenched so fast that within no time water stood in pools on the gravel path. Rainwater dripped from the lamp-posts and the extended sheds of the shops. The rikshawallas usually thronging the bylanes of CP disappeared. It was business time for the autowallas and their meters stopped working, as stranded passengers were ready to pay any amount to reach their destination as soon as possible. Many others wanted to enjoy the weather over a cup of coffee, so the coffee cafés were teeming with people discussing the weather, the stock market, the day at college, work etc.
The so-called unexpected monsoon meant good business for some but it also meant no business for many. The usual sight of small time venders selling artificial jewelry like trinkets, anklets, rings etc displayed on small cloth-spreads suddenly went missing. The small cloth sellers with no shed but only an open stand with different types of cloths hanging were seen pulling plastic sheets over the vivid colored clothes, preventing them from getting wet. The rain did, in many ways wash away the colors of CP. Now the only colors that could be seen were the black and navy blue plastic sheets so commonly used to cover things from water.
The only sound that broke the noise of the down-pour were the car horns. In no time there was a traffic jam. The wipers of the cars moved so smoothly and effortlessly on the windscreen as if they had been used all summer. The rain worked as a lubricant for the dry human souls, which had become rusted, lazy and lifeless in the long drawn summer. The rain broke the monotony. The rain not only loosened the soil and freshened the leaves but also broke the morbid way of life. It brought with it motion, it spurred everyone into a new kind of activity.
Amidst all the downpour when everyone was trying to adapt to the sudden change something remained static. Even as everyone tried to run into a dry and warm place; there were a few children who continued sitting there on the foot path, as if no rain was falling... as if it was still hot and dry with the sun burning... throwing light on there hopeless and dark future... as if these clouds could do nothing to shut this hopelessness out of their minds. The sun could not melt their iced hearts and frozen looks and the rain fails in making their future fertile and green. These children sit there with a fixed look of misery and plight on their face as if nothing had changed... as if nothing would ever change!
Then something other than the horn breaks the pitter-patter of the rain. "bibi bhagwan ke naam pe kuch de do... do din se kuch nahi khaya hai." These words stumble out of the boy sitting on the footpath from his puckered mouth. This boy with bones and ribs, all that is seen, a skin dark and bare sagging over the skeleton, hair scraggly with mud cakes all over. There he sits on the path on which people walk, give him a look of pity, turn away, and walk on. People pity him saying- " poor boy..." But this thought is also wiped away with the next breeze that follows.
Not very far away from this boy, a little girl is trying to sell candy floss in front of Mc-Donald's. The girl is too young to be standing alone on the footpath when everyone around her is hurrying home, but she has none. As she stops one lady to buy her candy floss, her eager questioning eyes lit up with hope... which fades in less than a moment as the lady tugs her kurta from the girls twig like fingers grip and turns away to leave. A dream is shattered...a flame of hope is snuffed even before it could light-up.
These children are an unwanted part of the posh Connaught Place... but very much a part. Some pity them, some drop a coin in their hands through which no astrologer will be able to make a prediction. May be because there is no prediction to make. Their hopeless futures can be seen clearly. No amount of rainwater is able to wash away the desolate future that awaits them.
They seem to be the permanent feature of the market, whether scorching heat or a rain shower...they continue to sit on the path we walk past, with no roof over their bare heads, hardly more than their bare skin to shield them... these children whose tiny fingers lifeless, left alone in the big world... left to face what we dread even in our heads... left in solitude...! They watch one more monsoon hit the city...people rush past them... they sit there knowing they will also flow by unnoticed just as the rainwater forms a mud stream and flows down the way...
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