The urchin at the traffic light: An unexpected postcard from #FreeIndia

by Rajarshi Sengupta Waiting at a traffic light on a rainy day in Mumbai. Drops of rain slithering down the windows. As is usual in Mumbai, with the rains coming down, the wait at the lights seems interminable. The radio is on. Happening RJs prattle on about the huge discount offers in large department stores on account of Independence Day. You idly remember a news item a year ago which stated that the largest sales these days was no longer around Diwali but on Independence Day thanks to such discounts. Make a mental note to discuss it with your retail client. [caption id=“attachment_1665813” align=“alignleft” width=“380”]  Reuters[/caption] The street vendors of Mumbai, of indefatigable spirit and energy walk around the cars, pushing mobile chargers, recent best-sellers, pieces of cloth to wipe cars, feather dusters. There are no discounts here, but plenty of haggling should someone bite. Missing from the crowd are the hijras, who are huddled under the flyover, waiting for the rain to stop. The lights still do not change. A group of young urchins come up to the car, selling Independence Day paraphernalia - small models of the tricolour, two flags intersecting over a small styrofoam map of India, also coloured in saffron, white and green. Kids who should normally been learning and playing in schools, instead working on the ruthless streets of Mumbai, eking out a living in the urban grime. The one that comes to our car can barely reach the window of the Innova – his dress is in tatters, but he pushes his goods up as high as possible for the driver to see. My driver is a taciturn man, not given to much conversation apart from when his wife calls him on his cell – they talk about their children. He is from western UP, also an immigrant to the maximum city. As is his wont, he has been ignoring the hawkers trying to make a sale, sometimes shooing them away. This time however something changes. He looks at the small child earnestly looking up, rolls down the window and wants to take a look at the flags. He runs his fingers over the flag, feels the texture and agrees to buy the national flag to place on his dashboard. The child asks for Rs 20. He haggles it down to Rs 10. As he takes out the money, the child slips his hand into the car and suddenly encounters a blast of cool air from the AC vent in front of the driver’s right hand. As the cool air hits the child his face lights up in a dazzling smile. Rotating his hand, he smiles shyly at the driver and then at me. Perhaps it is a moment of unexpected bliss for him. His unexpected reward for selling dashboard patriotism for a tenner before Independence Day. The driver pays him, and the windows roll up. The boy sprints away looking for his next customer. At last, the lights change. Somehow they seem a little blurred. Maybe my eyes are a bit moist. Rajarshi Sengupta is a management consultant who is discovering the pleasures of writing.