Indian Writing

It is a freezing winter night on the streets of Delhi. Through the swirling smog, on pavements, side streets, road dividers, under bridges, in subways, shop fronts and lofts of staircases, in railway platforms and bus stations, one can dimly make out the huddled forms of sleeping children…

I asked Ratul who was the finest adult he knew. He did not hesitate. It was Obhra bhai, a pickpocket in the New Delhi station. I must confess to have been startled by his choice. Ratul explained: “He protects us from older bullies, buys medicines for us when we are sick, and discourages us when we inhale solution and other drugs. ‘I was on this platform since I was younger than you,’ he tells us. ‘I know this world. If you take to drugs, you will never escape to a better
life. You will die here. I will not let this happen to you.’”

There are winter nights when all of us drive past the huddled forms of children sleeping on the streets without a thought, let alone a word of love or dreams for the children’s future. I realise then that Ratul was probably right when he chose the pick-pocket over all of us.