A cold may summer..

May summers are probably the hottest.
The sun doesn’t just rise, it roars throughout the day!
No one wants to leave their home unless it’s a water park!

It was the usual lazy sunny afternoon. Temperature might be touching 40 degree Celsius. I was trying to take a snooze just when there was this constant thudding.

Apparently, there was some construction work going on in the neighborhood. So you just have to get use to the drilling and the hammering. It is kind of fascinating to watch the whole construction in progress and the sync with which those workers perform their chores. The smell of the cement, bricks, mortar and of course the sand hills which becomes a temporary play park for the kids. We all have played in the sand, haven’t we?

I saw a few kids playing on the sand and cherished my childhood. Before I could resume to a flat face, one of the workers appeared and shooed the kids away. While others dispersed like pollens, one of them stayed put. He started carrying ceramic tiles on his head. All at once my enthusiasm died and I thought of going inside.

As if my empathy and dreary would do any good to that child who deserved to play and make sand castles instead of making castles for others. However, I just watched that little kid.

He was guided and manoeuvred by a man who was his uncle, one of the workers. No kid would do this on choice! Apparently, this man had brought him along.
Bonded Child Labour.

The shirt that he wore had lost its colour in the cement dust. The cap over his shabby dark-brownish hair shadowed his face. His uncle constantly shouted at him for something or the other to which he never replied. From making concrete, carrying bricks and plastering, the 10 year old palms had lost their tenderness. His only recess allowed was ‘the Lunch’. I then reckoned that two dry chapattis folded in a small hanky can be someone’s lunch.

At 2 in the afternoon, the sun was bleeding lava. The little boy noticed me looking at him from my patio, as he wiped off the stream of sweat on his forehead. I shuddered with weirdness and guilt.

Weird because it’s not my routine to take a long fixed look at people.... and guilt... well, I can’t explain that. My throat had a blockage. I call it need for H2O. Without thinking too much, I poured chilling water in a glass and went down.

Having him watch drinking large mouthfuls rapidly, cured some of the unexplainable guilt and his “Thankoo” almost healed me.

I offered him a proper lunch and couple of clothes which he was happy to accept. It led me to a general talk. Well asking ‘Do you go to school’ was out of question, so I restricted it to knowing the child’s name.

“What’s your name?” I asked as he handed me back the plate (of meal that he actually deserved).
The little one smiled his thanks and timidly replied, “Gudiya”.

I lost my appetite for the day’s meal. The innocent under the cap was a girl, who now was back to lifting bricks and tiles on a head pan.