Indian Writing

Dear Santosh

That was your name, wasn’t it? It was about the only thing I could be sure of. I’m not even sure how old you were - one report said 9, another said 11, another said you were 13 years old. Were you Santosh Kumar, or Santosh Mahto? The reports weren’t sure. You studied at the nearby municipal school. Were you in the fifth standard at school, or sixth? Not sure. You played football. Which position? We’ll never know. Already the details are blurring, disappearing from our minds.

The only thing we know, because this was reported, is that you were the boy who picked up a packet that Saturday at Mehrauli, a packet that two men on a motorbike had dropped as they drove past, and you ran after them, saying, Bhaisaab, aapka saamaan gir gaya…

Or some such thing. Because you were only trying to help. What you didn’t notice was that the packet was packed with nails, and when it exploded, it was still in your hand, and yours was the first life it took.

The odd, sad thing is that you might not have even had to die. You were only there in the market at that moment because your older brother had asked you to go get a crate of eggs. Your brother - I think his name was Bumbum, according to a report I read - who apparently works during the day and every evening runs a stall selling omelettes and boiled eggs, and perhaps chai as well? - for those like him who work long hours mainly doing physical work in the sun, who have no homes to go back to and who eat on the streetside. They, too, are among those who lose their lives or suffer injuries in attacks like these.

You were only trying to help, and look at what happened. Perhaps people will, in future, think twice before bending down to pick up something for the next person. Or hesitate to offer help without being asked. If so, then with you, Santosh, we will have lost yet another part of our humanity.

And now, Santosh, you too will become one more number in a ghastly count of lives. Except for your family - they will remember, and feel the loss and the injustice. Your mother and father, your sisters and brothers, your grandmother, the uncle who saw your body. Your father, a casual labourer who earns by the day, who migrated with his family from Bihar, some years ago, in search of work and some sort of a future for his children. Unlike the recent Vogue issue that used poverty as an interesting new backdrop for their photoshoot, your father had lived poverty and knew how terrible it was. He wanted his children to have a better life.

I found a picture of you in one of the news reports. You were wearing a blue shirt, you had an open, wide-eyed expression on your little face, and you were wearing a red thread tied around your neck. Someone at home - perhaps your grandmother, or your mother - had tied a charm around your neck to ward off the evil eye. It didn’t, however, manage to save you from the evil that lurks inside the hearts of men who throw bombs.