Lost Spring

‘Sometimes I find a Rupee [blank_start]in[blank_end] the garbage’ “Why [blank_start]do[blank_end] you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every morning scrounging [blank_start]for[blank_end] gold in the garbage dumps [blank_start]of[blank_end] my neighbourhood. Saheb left his home [blank_start]long[blank_end] ago. Set amidst the [blank_start]green[blank_end] fields of Dhaka, his home is not even a [blank_start]distant[blank_end] memory. There were many storms that [blank_start]swept[blank_end] away their fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s why they left, [blank_start]looking[blank_end] for gold in the big city where he now lives. “I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, [blank_start]looking[blank_end] away. “Go [blank_start]to[blank_end] school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how hollow the advice must sound. “There is no school [blank_start]in[blank_end] my neighbourhood. When they build one, I [blank_start]will[blank_end] go.” “If I [blank_start]start[blank_end] a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking. “Yes,” he says, [blank_start]smiling[blank_end] broadly. A few days later I see him running [blank_start]up[blank_end] to me. “Is your school ready?” “It takes longer [blank_start]to[blank_end] build a school,” I say, embarrassed at [blank_start]having[blank_end] made a promise that was not meant. But promises like mine abound [blank_start]in[blank_end] every corner of his [blank_start]bleak[blank_end] world. After months of [blank_start]knowing[blank_end] him, I ask him his name. “Saheb-e-Alam,” he announces. He does not know what it means. If he knew its meaning — lord of the universe — he would have a [blank_start]hard[blank_end] time believing it. Unaware of what his name represents, he roams the streets with his friends, an [blank_start]army[blank_end] of barefoot boys who appear like the morning birds and disappear [blank_start]at[blank_end] noon. Over [blank_start]the[blank_end] months, I have come to recognise each [blank_start]of[blank_end] them. “Why [blank_start]aren’t[blank_end] you wearing chappals?” I ask one. “My mother did not bring them [blank_start]down[blank_end] from the shelf,” he answers simply. “Even [blank_start]if[blank_end] she did he will throw them [blank_start]off[blank_end],” adds another who is wearing shoes that do not match. When I comment on it, he shuffles his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says a third boy who has never owned a pair [blank_start]all[blank_end] his life. Travelling [blank_start]across[blank_end] the country I have seen children [blank_start]walking[blank_end] barefoot, [blank_start]in[blank_end] cities, [blank_start]on[blank_end] village roads. It is not lack [blank_start]of[blank_end] money but a tradition to stay barefoot, is one explanation. I wonder if this is only an excuse to explain [blank_start]away[blank_end] a [blank_start]perpetual[blank_end] state of poverty. I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a young boy he [blank_start]would[blank_end] go to school [blank_start]past[blank_end] an old temple, where his father was a priest. He would stop briefly [blank_start]at[blank_end] the temple and pray for a [blank_start]pair[blank_end] of shoes. Thirty years later I visited his town and the temple, which was now drowned in an [blank_start]air[blank_end] of desolation. In the backyard, where lived the new priest, there were red and white plastic chairs. A young boy [blank_start]dressed[blank_end] in a grey uniform, [blank_start]wearing[blank_end] socks and shoes, arrived panting and threw his school bag on a folding bed. [blank_start]Looking[blank_end] at the boy, I remembered the prayer another boy had [blank_start]made[blank_end] to the goddess when he had finally got a pair of [blank_start]shoes[blank_end], “Let me never lose them.” The goddess had [blank_start]granted[blank_end] his prayer. Young boys like the son of the priest now wore shoes. But many others like the ragpickers in my neighbourhood [blank_start]remain[blank_end] shoeless.