Flower in the muck

The boy on the bus sat hunched in his seat. He was about ten years of age, but the posture, hiding his face behind the bag of books on his lap, made him appear small and lost. He seemed shy and withdrawn, squashed between buxom passengers on seats reserved for ladies. His uniform, faded from many washes, had an indeterminable emblem embroidered on the breast of the shirt. It may have been a lotus - the flower that blooms alone in muck, its innate splendour unsullied by its environment.

It was clear he travelled unattended. The dusty socks and shoes on his feet testified to rundown conditions. I imagined the family was hard pressed to make ends meet. His father was probably the only earning member, burdened by the costs of supporting an extended family, his mother young and harried. Household chores would take up all her time – cooking, cleaning, washing, hauling water and tending to the elderly in the family as well as the children. In sending to school, the child’s parents must visualize a brighter future for their generation next, as well they should. If the free mid-day meal at school was attraction, so be it. But definitely, escorting them to and from school was out of the question; neither would they have the wherewithal to hire school-bus services for their safety.

The ordinary buses here, both public and private, carry far more passengers than they should. At peak time overcrowding, there is hardly any personal space, as people pack in like sardines. These buses, my sister living in America believes, are a hotbed of deviant behaviour, a living hell for children. She shudders at the mere thought of one. Convinced that predators abound, she has banned her offspring from boarding them. Apparently this thought never occurred to her in our younger proletariat days when she herded us onto them!

It is true that back in the day, far fewer women were out and about pursuing education or employment. Most mothers were too shy to speak about sex, and children, especially girls, were left their clueless about this reality. Public awareness was poor as well, and the young victims either too uncomprehending to protest, or too ashamed to draw attention to themselves. But much has changed since then, mainly in the passenger numbers. With greater social awareness, the bus interiors have clear gender demarcations – women and children on one side, men on the other. Over the intervening years, girls learned to confront, to even hit back at attempts to take undue advantage. As mothers themselves thereafter, many have taught daughters to be assertive. Often other passengers join in to deter unsavory behaviours.

In a country as large as India, with at least a quarter of the billion plus population located below the economic cut-off line, poverty is the affliction. Exposed as they are to the environment with nobody to shield them from harm, children born into this disadvantage have to learn early to fend for themselves. Harsh circumstances force their growing up fast - or perishing.

On this day, the bus conductor ruffled his pack of tickets with his thumb, the sound a distinct reminder of the rite of passage – one had to buy one’s stay on the bus. The boy pressed back as if trying to disappear from view. He could not however, avoid the experienced eye of the conductor. Every now and then the man would look around at him and flick his pack in warning. The boy would feebly feel in his pockets in response. Ticket, ticket, urged the man with his persistent thumb sounding his impatience, his stare unsympathetic. Watching the tension build up, I was touched by the boy’s woeful look. The point to disembark was approaching for me, so I decided to intervene in their byplay and help the child. As I moved forward to resolve the issue, to buy the ticket for him myself, the boy stood up and dug deep into his pockets. He brought out a coin that he placed in the man’s palm, and shrugged his shoulders to imply he had no more. The man glared at him, but turned away. He did not offer a ticket stub, nor was he asked for one. The boy hopped off the bus when it stopped, and behind him, I did too.

He seemed to gain energy as the bus trundled away. As I watched, he casually slung the bag across his shoulder. Then suddenly, he sprinted across the road beating the oncoming traffic. He seemed to be heading in the same direction that I was. I followed at a more sedate pace. On the other side on the road, he skipped along ahead on the sidewalk. I saw him pause a moment before darting in towards a roadside stall.  These are makeshift wooden structures where knickknacks are sold – chocolates, lozenges, potato chips, cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and so on. Their owners set up for business every day, keeping a weather eye open for the police. Because, whenever there is a clean-up drive, they must pack up and leave. 

The boy leaned on the counter, pointing at something in the stall, while holding out something he had clutched in his hand. As I came alongside, the stall-keeper took it and opened out the tight folds of paper money! I could see that the note would easily have covered the actual price of the boy’s bus ride. I shook my head and smiled wryly to myself as I walked on. So much for my expectations of childlike innocence, I thought! Indeed, this child has already learned to fend for himself in an unkind world.  Left to their own devices and exposed to a devious environment, children of disadvantage may practice the art of con, long before mastering the R’s.  The need for survival forces their early adaptation to harsh reality. Can we really fault the lonely flower for being touched by the surrounding muck?