Work In Progress: For a Better Tomorrow

He flails his arms above his head. Over him, the merciless summer sun, in front of him, the rush hour Mumbai traffic. Beads of sweat on his brow, his legs feel like wooden stumps, but his eyes, they sparkle with the arrogance that only power could elicit.

For a boy of six, he couldn't be more satiated. "Yaha se nahi, Us taraf se chalo, samajhta nahi kya!"(Not this way, the other way, don't you understand!), he shouts at the top of the most authoritative voice he could muster, with animated gestures. "Arre Munna! Sambhalna, yeh le, yeh odh le, garmi bahut hai."(Munna, careful, here, take this, wear this, it is very hot.), says his mother, wiping her sweat, the perspiration worth their evening supper, a cloth to cover his head. "Maa! Abhi nahi, dikhta nahi kya, mein kam pe hoon!"(Mom! Not now, can't you see, I'm busy!), innocent bravado, her lips slightly curve upward,"Dhyaan dena, kone ki taraf khada reh, mein doosri taraf jaa rahi hoon."(Take care, stand by the corner, I'm going to the other side.). Mumbled affirmation and he gets back to flailing his arms.

'Mumbai Metro - Work in Progress: For a Better Tomorrow!', says the almost invisible board behind him, so caked with dust that it camouflages his wretched self, well, except for the bright red shirt, the colour of blood, the colour of death. "Yaha se nahi, Us taraf se chalo, samajhta nahi kya!", an untiring bundle of cheery optimism.

Munna. A more common name for a street-kid, there could not be. A leftover piece of dry bread and some water from a nearby water pump, breakfast for Munna. A bastard child, an offspring of forceful passion, not uncommon on the Mumbai streets. Lepers and Eunuchs, his next of kin, more bastard children, constant companions. The picture would paint a thousand words, but never the other way round.

A little cheer, this sweltering summer day. To him, he commands the traffic on the Link Road. A rumbling stomach, a daily occurrence, the discomfort now hardly felt. A persistent dizziness, now a blot of normalcy on the parchment, his life. Trying times and no permanent roof, his mother's part in this mindless charade. Drowns his excitement a cacophony of horns and screeches and unnerving expletives.

A little drowsy and drained of all he got, Munna sits down, and with the screeches of air-brakes, the dull barricading is now splattered with the warning crimson and the busy Mumbai street is lined with choicest innards. The merciless summer sun glares, the rush hour Mumbai traffic honks and Munna's mother wipes her perspiration to the bloody ground.

This work by Ashok is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.