TWILIGHT

Short-story

“Twilight”

- George Vilson

Sir, can I have a coin please . . .

I was just rushing to office after parking the car in a busy inter-section when someone behind me politely asked.

He was a nine year old boy in very shabby clothing and uncombed hair. It appears that he did not have a wash for a couple of weeks. Perhaps he might not have seen his dirty face in a mirror. Or rather, he might not even have a comb and a mirror of his own to see his self. It might also be possible that he had no proper meals for long . . .

Why?

Though I was already late to my office I just turned to ask him.

My question had its own effect. The boy stared at me from a different angle as if none had made such an inquiry before! I could not make out from his muddy look whether it posed a threat or a ray of hope to him. The projected eyeballs made a mysterious penetration into mine and I was not sure, where it struck harder.

For food, what else . . . .

This time there was a thin layer of smile on his narrow face making me indeed very silly in his eyes.

Many things crossed into my mind in a split second as if children begging for money, the hoodlums, who use them to beg in the streets. These owners never fed or dress them well but always make use of their disabilities or make them disable to get attention and sympathy from passersby.

There is a meeting in the office about child labor and it’s after effects in society. I was the one, who is supposed to present the main paper on the subject and deliver a key-note address among the invitees. But this guy somehow made me to talk to him and find out his whereabouts before reaching the office.

Come, I will buy you enough food . . . .

I took his small hand in mine and led him to a nearby restaurant.

Ha Ha

The Cashier at the counter burst into laughing till the dilapidated building, on which his restaurant stands, started vibrating! I was rather worried since he was finding it difficult even to breathe but still, what might have caused him to make such a guffaw!

Sir, don’t you get a good company to this nice restaurant in a pleasant morning!?

The Cashier asked me when he stopped laughing and the building ceased its shuddering. Oh. That is the reason! The tobacco stained yellow teeth were on irregular in size and shape. The stink that came out when he talked, mixed with the smell of food, had made a dirty odor near and around him, which the room freshener could not hold!

I didn’t answer him; instead I took the boy to the wash.

I asked the boy to clean both his hands with soap and wiped his face with a cotton towel. To my utter surprise, immediately after washing and cleaning, the boy took out a small comb from his pocket and started combing his disorderly hair while looking at the wash-basin mirror.

Now he looked as a changed sweet boy, not the one I had just picked up from the street!

We took chairs opposite near the glass window facing the street. From there we could have a long view of the road with many of its sky-scrappers and also those pretty old traditional buildings, which government wanted to preserve for future generations as a historical museum. The local governor already laid foundation stone to commence construction with lots of pomp and splendor recently.

I ordered an orange juice for the boy to start with, followed by a heavy breakfast. He surprised me with his civilized food habits by enjoying every bit of the food that he ate. I did not forget to order a cup of vanilla ice-cream with almond and pistachio for him as children like ice-cream very much. For that too, he had it with his own style!

What about your parents?

I asked while the boy was eating.

He stopped eating but did not answer. He was either recollecting those memories of his family or trying to shy away revealing those details to me.

No Dad, no Mom, No Sis . . . am all alone . . .

He said and finished his ice-cream.

Nevertheless, he said very brief notes on his family. It is indeed very pathetic, especially for a boy of just nine years old had to go through all these troubles and tribulations in a short span of life.

He hails from a very small village in north. First the villagers had the menace from terrorists, who had come in the village to hide from authorities. Then the army came in search of terrorists. In both cases, the villagers neither had any freedom nor any peace. His father was killed in an encounter between the terrorists and the army. One day two of his elder sisters hanged themselves on a fig tree, which was giving them plenty of fruits. It was exactly a week after army took over the affairs of the village. He has no idea about his mother or younger sister, who was with him when he started his journey towards south . . .

He started traveling towards south many months ago in search of a job but find nothing. He was forced to collecting alms for food and slept on footpaths. Now, neither he mind in which city he lives in nor any particular like for any area. He needs food when he is hungry and a safe place to sleep in as he is very much afraid about policemen. It is not because of their cane or revolvers hanging on their waist belts but they make him to do many unwanted things. He hates them like hell.

Sir, sometime they take me in their jeeps to secluded dark corners of dilapidated buildings to undress. Then I don’t know what’s happening but I have to buy olive oil to get over with the pain. . . .

The poor kid! How dare the authorities!! The criminal administration itself is iniquitous!!! I thought about my own son almost at the same age, what he would be doing now?

My mobile started buzzing in the meanwhile.

Hello!

Jay, where are you, we have ten minutes to the meeting . . .

It was my Secretary calling to remind me about the meeting on child labor.

I took the small boy to the office. I had actually forgotten to ask him, though names are very much unimportant in the current set of things. But when I asked him he said he has no idea what would be his name like. Amazing, there may be mentally retarded people, who may not be able to recollect their names, but . . . . His mother used to call him, son, and the younger sister, brother and he only remembers those two names. And also the public called him at times as “dirty beggar boy”!

The story of the son or brother or the dirty beggar boy flashed on the large screen in our office conference room in a lively presentation with the main character on the center-stage at the end of the session. The participants were aghast on what’s happening in villages of the country and they were apprehensive of the situation of scattered families all over. This is not a world war scenario, there is no famine, there is no war with neighboring countries but even then, the poor people have been suffering . . . Is there justice? Where is the judiciary? How could you stop child labor in such situations? There was a pin-drop silence in the hall.

Finally, the Director of Child Education and Labor Welfare Authority spoke about making a committee in order to study the situation of scattered families in the country as a whole, including their children and to submit a report to the government within a month. All the participants nodded their approval in one second. One gentleman from a Philanthropic Organization came forward to offer adoption of this boy, whom I met in the street.

I could not leave the nameless boy to anyone, but he is mine, mine alone . . . .

OoOoO