Having a cup of tea and hogging
snacks with our cunning eyes on plate of biscuits is what we do when we visit
our far-far relatives, who may be much closer to our parents. And inside, we
also mumble “Couldn't they ask me for a soft drink in this hot summer?” But the
thing is that at least we have some advantages over there, like we get to hear
the banal stories of uncle’s job, which may make us sleep well or we need not
to start the conversation with them that can be initiated itself by our parents
when the topic of our studies is raised by either of the sides. Now if someone
asks whether we can spend a whole day under the shelter of a poor, hearing his
grievances, tough replies are blatantly expected.
It was quite hot and humidity due
to light rain teasers was so irritating that my forehead abraded wiping off the
sweat. It was a location, hardly a kilometer from Ghaziabad railway station,
where some slums were settled over both sides of the road. I was heading to visit
one of the slums, but the conditions were so pathetic that I thought if they
would throw me out of the entry, how to run from there as quickly as possible.
It was muddy all over; the slums were built on the same level at which the
sewage water was flowing, forming gullies around heaps of garbage over which
pigs were scrounging for their meals. A herd of kids, wearing torn underwear,
were throwing stones into a dirty pond and chortling when the waves on the
surface of water appeared diverging. Women outside their shelter were blowing
their coal braziers from which choking smoke was diffusing into air. I stopped
in front of a man who was sitting beside his slum and looking at the people
passing by the road. He stood up and looked at me as if he was an eager
participant of any reality show and I would be announcing the winner of that
sequel. I appeased his curiosity by telling him about my motive, though a bit
exaggerated, but not as much as those fake wishers who do for lust of power and
money. The man let me come inside his dilapidated cottage, where a year old
baby, crying for milk, checked me if I had a bottle of it, I gave a cunning
smile also feeling sorry for the disturbance. Suddenly a lady entered who covered
her face when she saw me. It was suffocating to stay inside a place with
paleness spread all over and a strange smell moving into my nostrils, but I
controlled myself trying to develop acquaintances and share their problems. The
man had a wife and three children, of which two were girls. “What do you do to
arrange for meals?” I asked looking at his wife who brought a glass of water, a
glass which lost its shape several years ago. I quickly checked what can be
possible water borne disease if I would drink it because the whole arrangement
was unhygienic. Without any second thought, I drank the whole, coddling myself
“If your body can bear hostel food for three years, this water is far better
than it”. The man replied that he was a rag picker and his wife was a sweeper.
“None of them want to study and we can’t even guarantee them a meal for the
next day, how can us…. Education” the man said with wrinkled face showing his
inability to survive. There was lying a basket in which rotten meals were
collected, pointing at which I asked about and the man replied it is the food
which his wife gets from local people for sweeping the streets. “If I will
teach your children and take responsibility to make them stand on their own
will you let me?” I asked him but his reply was nonchalant because he was a bit
concerned about his girls and present conditions regarding the safety of girls.
I didn't put pressure to my words and asked the permission to leave with a
smile, but this one was showing my helplessness. Moving out of his shelter, I
assured him that I will meet him again with a guarantee for support, a support
with education, a support with a quarter of basic needs and encouragement, from
my group of humble members; because the people are waking up gradually and a
time will come when there will be more hands to help than the poor themselves.
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