I knew it when I saw him the first time. So did the friend who was with me. His eyes had the innocence of a small boy and did not go too well with his huge built. I looked at him and then looked at my friend, she had the same question in her eyes. So we asked this young boy - How old are you?
And before we could blink, he blatantly replied - twenty.
And it took us a while to understand that he knew that people could ask him this question sometimes, and he'd been trained to answer it without inviting any suspicion. I guess he wasn't too young either - maybe a 16 or 17, he knew why he had to lie. He knew he dint belong here. He knew his employers had done something inadmissible by making him work - the only thing I don't know is if he was grateful to them? for allowing him to contribute for his family's bread and butter. Or did he hate them, for the reasons we had started hating the restaurant owners in that very instance.
I reiterated - Twenty?
Haan! Sir, order?
Do you go to school?
Hmmm?
Do you go to school?
Hmmm?
He pretended that he doesn't understand me. And rushed away to one side towards the wall, waiting for us to call him again to place the order.
After about five minutes(the time we took to discuss about him and a lot of others like him, and to decide upon the order), I called him back.
Two Coke, and a plate of Spring roll.
Ok Sir!
Kahaan se ho tum?
Bengal se!
Bengali aati hai?
Haan Sir!
Padhte ho?
Hmmm?
Padhte ho?
He nodded, unconvincingly. And like last time, left the place running.
Twenty minutes later, he served us our order. We were there for another 2 hours, I looked at him many times - every time he saw me, he'd start watching television or go inside the kitchen.
He was afraid I would ask him another question.
I didn't.
I was afraid too. That I would ask a question I don't have an answer for.
How many like him are there? What was I doing? What possibly could be done? And would it matter? How much? How far? How would I justify my inaction if I don't do anything? By looking around and finding out how many people in the world have been like me? Even worse, How many actually would feel that there is something wrong here? How easy would it be for everyone to swallow the lump in their throat?
I did nothing. I could do nothing in that one evening. But the lump in my throat is not gone yet. It wont go soon, because every time I step out of the home, and go anywhere, I see the same scene. At the garage washing people's bikes, at the barber shops shaving people's beard, at all local/street restaurants washing used plates, at busy markets serving tea to the shopkeepers, at construction sites - helping their parents finish off the day's work. I see the hands that hold bricks and tea pots and broom, and I see the people, who see and acknowledge the wrong, but the usual, every time.
There is a lot to be done, and all of us know what it is, but at least make a start, by not going to any such shop/restaurant/garage and letting the owners know that we and our known ones wont come to this place again till these small children keep working here.
Those hands would hold a book only once they become empty.
I am sure a few at least would be listening.
And before we could blink, he blatantly replied - twenty.
And it took us a while to understand that he knew that people could ask him this question sometimes, and he'd been trained to answer it without inviting any suspicion. I guess he wasn't too young either - maybe a 16 or 17, he knew why he had to lie. He knew he dint belong here. He knew his employers had done something inadmissible by making him work - the only thing I don't know is if he was grateful to them? for allowing him to contribute for his family's bread and butter. Or did he hate them, for the reasons we had started hating the restaurant owners in that very instance.
I reiterated - Twenty?
Haan! Sir, order?
Do you go to school?
Hmmm?
Do you go to school?
Hmmm?
He pretended that he doesn't understand me. And rushed away to one side towards the wall, waiting for us to call him again to place the order.
After about five minutes(the time we took to discuss about him and a lot of others like him, and to decide upon the order), I called him back.
Two Coke, and a plate of Spring roll.
Ok Sir!
Kahaan se ho tum?
Bengal se!
Bengali aati hai?
Haan Sir!
Padhte ho?
Hmmm?
Padhte ho?
He nodded, unconvincingly. And like last time, left the place running.
Twenty minutes later, he served us our order. We were there for another 2 hours, I looked at him many times - every time he saw me, he'd start watching television or go inside the kitchen.
He was afraid I would ask him another question.
I didn't.
I was afraid too. That I would ask a question I don't have an answer for.
How many like him are there? What was I doing? What possibly could be done? And would it matter? How much? How far? How would I justify my inaction if I don't do anything? By looking around and finding out how many people in the world have been like me? Even worse, How many actually would feel that there is something wrong here? How easy would it be for everyone to swallow the lump in their throat?
I did nothing. I could do nothing in that one evening. But the lump in my throat is not gone yet. It wont go soon, because every time I step out of the home, and go anywhere, I see the same scene. At the garage washing people's bikes, at the barber shops shaving people's beard, at all local/street restaurants washing used plates, at busy markets serving tea to the shopkeepers, at construction sites - helping their parents finish off the day's work. I see the hands that hold bricks and tea pots and broom, and I see the people, who see and acknowledge the wrong, but the usual, every time.
There is a lot to be done, and all of us know what it is, but at least make a start, by not going to any such shop/restaurant/garage and letting the owners know that we and our known ones wont come to this place again till these small children keep working here.
Those hands would hold a book only once they become empty.
I am sure a few at least would be listening.
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