His Sad Eyes ...

The signal turned red and I stopped the car. The song that the car-tape was playing did not quite amuse me, so I proceeded to change the cassette. Just then, someone knocked on my window. Without lifting my head, I knew who it could be. `Damn these beggars`, I thought to myself. `Bumbling pieces of human ass, filled with fake tales of helplessness and no self-respect`. It was precisely what I had always perceived of them, although at that moment there was certain antipathy in me. The hard day at work was affecting me

I looked up involuntarily and glanced at the window. Something stirred within me and made me look at the boy on the other side. He was hardly nine or ten years old, with disheveled hair, dark skin… and those eyes… the sad eyes; a crest of pain and struggle and a life hardly worth living. I had never seen such eyes before. They were, as if, a window to his being. I stared into them, almost trying to find something cheerful; a light, a shine maybe. I found none. He said nothing, just stood there with his hand outstretched, letting his eyes do the talking.

As if overcome by a spell, I reached for my wallet and took out a 5 rupee note. `No`, a voice within me said. `You will only be encouraging the child. You will only be encouraging beggary. This is not worthy of a human being

The signal turned green and I found myself in an anomalous conflict. The more I looked at the boy with sad eyes, the more I was moved to help. My dogma related to such people, however, held me back. Finally, I decided. I put my wallet back into my pocket, stepped onto the accelerator and sped away.

That evening, while I was sipping my tea, standing at my balcony, watching the sun set, leaving behind a golden trail on the sky, those eyes came back to me. The sad eyes. The eyes that said nothing yet spoke so much. `Was he really in need?` I thought. `Should I have given him the money? But why? Even he could’ve been a fake… these are trained, incorrigible beings`. But those eyes… those innocent, sad eyes… My friend came behind me, stood by my side, sipping her coffee and asked what I was thinking. I told her.

“Oh come on! Don’t get messed up with such frivolities.” was all she said.

Two days later, I stepped out of fm's 89 building. I had left my car at a mechanic’s and had to take the bus home. I walked to the nearby bus stop and waited. I glanced around at the people that were waiting with me. Across the congregation, sitting on the sidewalk was the boy with sad eyes. With his head down, he was counting the coins in his lap. Without much effort or thought whatsoever, I found myself standing beside him. He was engrossed in his activity. I sat beside him, on the sidewalk.

“What’s your name?” I enquired softly. For no conspicuous reason, I was having a conversation with him. He leisurely looked up, and I gazed into those eyes again. They seemed sadder than before

“Ajju”, he said and started counting his coins again.

“How old are you?”

“What do you want?” he said defiantly, still counting his coins.

“Nothing” I said, wondering to myself what indeed was it that I wanted to talk to him for. “Just wanted to talk to you.”

"I don’t know”, he said after a brief silence. “Amma thinks I am eleven.”
He had finished counting his coins; he put them in the side-pocket of his qameez and looked at me. `He doesn’t even know how old he is`, I was thinking, again and again.

Why do you beg?” I asked.

Maybe I wanted to know if these incorrigible beings indeed had a reason for their occupation. “What does your father do?”

“Amma says he died when I was very small.” I waited, expecting more from him. He remained silent.

“Why do you beg?” I asked again.

“I have a sick mother at home, sahib.” He said, louder this time. “I have two elder sisters. Amma says I have to get them married. There was an elder brother who ran away from home because my father used to beat him a lot. I am all they have. That is why I beg.” This was a nine-year-old talking to me.

He seemed much older, much more mature. “You can try working somewhere… at a mechanic’s shop maybe. You don’t have to beg you know”, I said, reforming. “You are a human being. You have some respect, don’t degrade yourself, son.” I saw my desired bus halt on the road in front. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to talk.

“I tried working at a garage, sahib. They gave me fifteen rupees a day. You can’t even buy a breakfast from that. If anything went slightly wrong, they didn’t pay me at all. I earn more through begging. I collected forty-seven rupees today. We can at least eat tonight.”

“But…”

“Sahib”, he cut me short. There was something ideally mature about him. “It is easy to live in furnished houses, sleeping in comfortable beds, driving in cars and eating more than what you should eat everyday and then talk about human respect.” His eyes were glimmering now; and I listened as he spoke. “We know no such comforts. We wake up everyday wondering if we would be able to at least eat well during the day. Our worry is surviving… day by day… My worry is my mother and my sisters. Tell me sahib, if your mother was in trouble would you think of saving her in whatever way possible or would you judge your acts and do only what earns you respect?”

I had no answer. I was caught in his eyes… and his words. “How old ARE you?” I uttered.

“Sahib, I never wanted to beg. I envy the kids in those cars with books and strange things in their hands. I wonder why I couldn’t be in their place and they in mine. But what else can I do?”

“But you lie and fake for that”.

“Yes… for me, the lies are a lot closer to the truth”, he said, a faint smile on his face. “And if it helps my mother get her medicine, I would not mind lying my entire life. Would you?”

I looked at him. The eyes still had the same posture. “Are you lying right now?”

He stood up, getting ready to leave, looked at me and said, “Even if I am lying, it is because people like you are moved more by my lies than by my truth. So, does it matter??”

He walked away, leaving me stare after him. I wanted to stop him and talk to him more. But I was thinking hard… recalling our conversation, trying to notify a point that would support my stance. His eyes, I was sure, were not lying. I stepped onto the next bus that stopped and headed home. That evening, as I and my father were carrying out the everyday ritual of my tea and his coffee at the balcony, I found myself riveted with those eyes again. The boy nearly had me believe whatever he said; he had almost made me change my beliefs. My father asked me what I was thinking. I told him. And I told him I wanted to help that boy.

“Since when did YOU stumble upon the beacon of light?” he said with an expression I could not quite comprehend.

“Are you mocking me?” I asked.

“No”, he said, putting his cup down and taking my hand into his.

“Admiring you… All your life you have seen hundreds of these people but I have never seen you like this before.” I looked at him. His eyes had a question in them. A question I was asking myself; What HAD the boy done to me?

“I don’t know”, I spoke gently.

“I guess I never tried to be this close to reality. And he took me there.” I clutched his hand tightly. “He is so innocent… he reminded me of my baby brother… my brother in rags… and those eyes… I’m sure he wasn’t lying.” “So what do you want to do?”

“It is not only him. There are hundreds of them out there; begging, stealing, collecting swag from garbage, working at garages, selling items nobody cares to buy, getting beat up; all in a bid to acquire a lone day’s meal, a single day’s survival; and then there are the fake ones for whom begging is a crafted profession. Their sentinels push them into it… their limbs are broken at times to make it look realistic. We cannot know who is truly in need and who is not.”

“So do we give them the penny when they beg for it?” he asked.

“No. It will only hearten them. When they start earning more, would they want to quit?”

“But if you don’t… things would only get worse for them… aren’t they likely to get into crime and drugs?” he countered.

“Not always”, said I. “But we can help these children; if every one of us does his part… they won’t have to beg”.

“I respect that”, he said, looking directly into my eyes. “But how many lives CAN you change?”

“Is one life really that insignificant?” I asked, looking at the horizon that had swallowed the sun completely. He went silent. I felt him pat my hand.

It took me thirteen days to find him. Serendipity has its own bizarre scheme. I searched for him at various signals, bus stops and streets but never saw him. He knocked on my window one day on the same signal where we had first met.

Now the boy has changed… and so have his eyes, where sadness strives to creep in .....

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Posted By : Pervaiz Musharaf :P