Unmindful existence or mindful callousness

Oblivious to the early morning din, he slept soundly on the pavement of one of the busy city bridges. His worn out shoes tucked under his head served as a pillow, warding off the odious nightmares perhaps. A little further ahead a family of four or was it six, huddled under a bright pink canopy of a mosquito net, tied to a tree, lost in a dream world; the bright neon pink adding some colour to their black and white lives. Still ahead, three people lay on their backs on a threadbare sheet, their bedroom for the night or every night, a tired smile lurking on their lips as they stared up at the star studded sky, the shimmering lights in the distance bringing respite after a very long day. 

 They had no choice, they rarely complained: once the sun came up their belongings were neatly packed off and strung on to a boundary wall or tree or just packed into a knapsack, as they head off for their daily grind which varies from a grueling shift in a factory to being casual labourers at a construction site or just selling some wares that they either source or make themselves, at traffic lights. Life is busy and simple.  

Not too far from the spot in a huge sprawling house with an equally expansive garden, swimming pool and the latest trendy stuff, swanky cars and the like, lives a rich family of page three fame; complaining at the drop of a hat or rise in temperature, even though their exposure to the vagaries of Nature be no more than half an hour in an entire day. Ironically, they are steeped in choices and yet complain. They talk of the inadequacies of the city, the problems with the systems; of how boring it is, in spite of their high flying schedules; there’s an emptiness they try to fill, a void they try to plug. Life is busy but complex and convoluted.

Another dawn, another day, the tenacity of these street beings, continues to surprise. Peak noon heat: a bunch of little urchins frolic in a puddle of water, where the water emanated from on a hot afternoon in the middle of the road, is the least of their concerns, they are too busy romping in their little oasis.

Scarred faces, impish smiles, blonde hair a sign of malnutrition, but rich souls, living in the moment, not a care in the world, tempered and sharpened on the street, they revel in the openness of the city that treats them like dirt, but they call home. The upper crust sniggers at them at the first available opportunity, curling up the proverbial uppity nose at this scum that was threatening the city their glasshouse lives and their sanitized world.

But the have-nots, have what one would compare to hearts of gold. Written off by the so called haves, they lead marginalized lives, barely surviving on the periphery, but the sagacity that they often exhibit would leave many a seasoned scholar mildly ruffled, if not aghast.

Kindergarten is, perhaps, the only time that children are taught to pick out, identify and learn about community helpers. People without whom we wouldn’t be able to reach daily goals, but more often than not these very people are treated like the woodwork or a shade better, often expect to vanish into the woodwork once the work is done, like little elves who are of no use once they have waved their wand of magic, sprucing up dour lives.

  Frugal and bare or opulent and ensnared, seem to be two ends of the spectrum, somewhere in between human beings exist, so few and far between are they that they would perhaps be better off in anthropological museums, cossetted and protected as a fast vanishing breed to be shown as trophies to future and present, lost generations of children of ease and appease.

©Copyright Suverchala Kashyap