You arrive at the station in happy anticipation: you are on your way from the suburbs to the city to catch up with friends. The train arrives, you jump in and luck favours you with a window seat. Soon, you are lost in reverie, soundproofed from the surrounding cacophony by your thoughts and the moving scenery. It promises to be a good day.
The train arrives at your destination, the lofty domed terminus that is a landmark in the city. You alight and are immediately jostled by the rushing crowd. You are not propelled by the same urgency and search for a spot where you can stand awhile. Suddenly, you feel a tug at your sleeve: it is a little girl well dressed, oiled hair smoothly drawn into a single plait down her back. She has lost her ‘Mummy-Daddy’ in the crowd and wants you to help. You guide her to the two women constables outside the Ladies’ Compartment and tell them the problem. They promptly grab her by the hair and administer two hefty whacks, ‘Don’t you have anything better to do than harass the passengers?’ The child wraps her arms about herself protectively while tears roll silently down her cheeks. She casts an accusatory glance, ‘I asked for bread and you gave me a stone.’ You try to explain to the constables that she did not ‘harass’ you and that she is ‘lost’. The advise you, brusquely, ‘Don’t worry yourself sister. This happens every day. These children are a menace. Just mind your belongings and walk carefully.’
Unconvinced, you walk to the Station Master’s cabin. It is empty. You wait hopefully in the doorway and soon a man walks up to you and asks what you are there for. You explain. He brushes you aside, muttering under his breath about persons always wanting to waste his time and energy. You walk away and take a furtive glance about. The girl is standing forlorn, the space around her burdened with unshed tears. You walk with leaden step to the exit and see the gun-slung constable standing there. You approach him and tell him your problem. He tells you to take the child to the nearest police station and gives you directions. What if someone accuses you of kidnapping or worse? He tells you no one will even give you a second thought. You approach the child and tell her what you wish to do. She puts her hand hesitantly into yours. After all, she trusted you once. Your instinct tells you to take her to the Newspaper’s office just across the road, but you dutifully take her to the police station. Relief. The Sub-Inspector on duty listens to you attentively. He plies you and the child with tea and biscuits. The child’s details are ascertained and her home located. It is in a far off suburb at the end of the line. There is no one to take her. You volunteer and, this time, she comes trustingly. Armed with a piece of paper, you reach her to her doorstep. She recognizes her mother and darts forward, leaving you with a sense of fulfillment. But not for long. The mother beats her about the face and scolds loud and long. She gives you a dirty look and you have no choice but to walk away without so much as an exchange of words, forget about thanks. You ponder about the vagaries of life, filled with an anger and frustration that will linger for the rest of your day and beyond.
Script for a television serial? No. This is an almost verbatim account of a friend’s experience. Seated around the canteen table, we listened on the Monday to her Sunday experience. Someone at the table spoke up, ‘We are destined to be where we are and you should not interfere with destiny. The child was meant to be lost, just as the dying man is meant to die, just as the sick are meant to be sick and the prosperous are meant to prosper. When you interfere, you push the universe off kilter and disturb the natural order of things. You must never interfere.’ I am appalled. Where is the humanity?
When I get home, I spend an uncomfortable hour or two in introspection. Why am I here? What am I supposed to do? What is my life meant to be?
But that was yesterday. Today is fresh and new with much to be done. Yesterday will soon fade into distant and unruffled memory.
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