Life Is Still a Dream for Millions

Life is hard but should I be complaining?

Life is a dream.

For the charred hands scrubbing dirty shoes to shell out his school fees, his ‘Textbook of Mathematics’ tainted black ,lay forgotten on the sidewalk, it’s open pages whirling in the sweltering summer breeze.

For the frail lady with life sucked out of her body and a two year old in her right arm, propped on her thighs. Her midriff bare, skeletal ribs hanging out, she doesn’t even pay heed to the bawling child even as she alludes the passers-by into buying hand-made baskets. She knows she should be honest and price them 2 rupees less than she has, but life hasn’t been honest to her either.

For the desperate ragpicker, rummaging through the day’s garbage. His master is stingy, but he places his faith in the truck carrying garbage from the nearby wedding hall. On inauspicious days, him and his family accept their fates and close their eyes to a gurgling stomach.

For the one armed beggar who flocks all God’s abodes, every evening, in hope of one man’s generosity amongst the sea of devotees visiting everyday. He awaits that one man, who throws 10 rupees or more in his brazen copper bowl . That man, is his God for the day.

For the wrinkled hands with little light in her eyes,sweeping the streets. Once red, the bled-out bangles jingle on her twig-like arms. At an age when provident fund would have sufficed, she toils to feed herself twice a day. Little do the onlookers know, her mewling grandson clad in a skimpy t-shirt, too , awaits her arrival under the bridge where they sleep nowadays.

For the red eyed mason who must have repaired and built a hundred homes, but his own concrete roof is no where under sight. His children have accepted bricks and mortar as their companions for life and his wife hasn’t had a new saree in years. A father shouldering much more than bricks on his shoulders.

For the dusty balloon seller clad in an over-sized shirt, she squats on the footpath with her baby brother beside her,querulously eyeing the world. When the lights turn red, life waves her a green signal .She sprints across the maze of gasoline-emitting vehicles,wishing silently for one of the black windows to draw down and covet her balloons. It has been days since her last sell. As she walks back, dejected, among the honking and whirring of fuel guzzlers, somewhere deep inside, the truth she has been trying to shunt for days now boils up and overcomes her.The days of little things like balloons have gone past. The colorful dreams priced at rupees 5 come across as very cheap for the kids these days –kids who flock the fancy restaurant they have been sleeping outside for quite some time now, in hope of tasty leftovers, a taste of their fancy lives.

With their sight in my eyes, I dismount the evening bus on the pavement.

Dusted by the day’s work, I still have two more kilometres to walk before I slump on my cozy bed.

But I am not complaining.

After all,the life I am living is a mere dream for millions out there.

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