The railway uncle

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It was yet another dusky day and the Guwahati railway station was , as usual, filled up with hustling crowd of passengers, some of which waiting for their trains, others standing at tea stalls gulping down tea and discussing politics while some panicking at the enquiry counter, overloading the enquiry guy with arrows of questions seconds by seconds. The loudspeakers echoed together with the announcement of the arrival of the train for which Mr.Baruah was eagerly waiting. Mr.Baruah was a middle aged person, probably in his mid 40’s, a resident of Guwahati. He was not accustomed to travel in a train as he could very well afford the luxuries of a flight but the weather of Guwahati planned a surprise train journey for him and out of adventure he decided to travel in sleeper class rather than AC class. The train arrived and Mr.Baruah boarded it and got himself seated. Other passengers also took their seats one by one and soon the train was packed up to the brim, with hardly any space for anyone.

The train chugged off the station and picked up its full pace. The view outside the windows was very pleasant as the train was passing through rural areas of Assam. Mr.Baruah was busy in his short nap, which was broken by a sudden sound of abusing. He woke up and to his utter surprise found a group of guys, probably in their mid 20’s,  cursing and abusing a small kid of about 10 years old, just three compartments away. He inquired to a person sitting next to him,

“What happened??? Why are they abusing that kid?”

The man replied “nothing much, just daily mellow drama. These kids nowadays sing in the public transport and ask for money. Later on they have drugs with that money. These guys are doing the right thing by abusing him. At least then he would feel shame.”

That kid, after managing to escape the harsh words of those guys, again started to sing, with two stones in his hand, which he tapped against each other and produced a musical sound which goes very well with the song he was singing. Mr.Baruah was admiring the kid from the starting of his song to the ending. As his song finished he started asking people sitting around him to donate some money.

Some people gave, some didn’t. Then he walked towards Mr.Baruah and said

“Sahib, give some money. I haven’t eaten since two days.”

Mr.Baruah didn’t know what to do or say. He noticed the kid. He was too small, skinny. His hairs strands were dry and rough and certainly would not have been oiled for months now. His shirt on his body was there for namesake and his trouser did not fit him. One of his hands used to hold it on his waist and he had the innovative technique of fastening it with a rope of brittle plastic threads. He was standing expressionless just like an old stuffed toy.

“Beta, what’s your age?” Mr.Baruah asked him.

“Dus “

“Why you do this? This is your age to study, to play.” 

He didn’t say anything. Mr.Baruah repeated the question.

This time he replied

“Sahib, I have problems in my home. My father committed suicide as he was unable to pay back the loans which he took for his business as most of the money he took went away in buying his liquors. Since then, my mother works as maid in some houses to provide us food, I have two sisters, they need to go to school so I have to work, no other option left. I tried working in a tea shop but the owner thrashed me and fired me when I broke a cup while washing them. People don’t give work to me for the fear of being caught by police for child labor. Govt has setup strict rules for that, but they should have setup some rules for feeding us too “