Salaam
All at once, traffic
lights at the intersection blink and go dead. The brakes of a police van squeal
as it halts at the middle of the crossroads with a massive jerk. Round-tummied sentries tumble
out and scurry all over the intersection square, shouting at motor-cyclists, bikers,
rickshaw drivers, motorists and a painted school bus to move back and clear the
center…more …more and more. Passengers roll the window screens down and demand
to be given an explanation. Their demands, as always, go unheard.
In the dewy school-bus
windows, curious eyes behind quashed noses, watch the scurry.
The traffic stoppage has
started to work its mischief. Beggars percolate through the trail of whirring
engines. Salaam, the beggar boy who’s been staring at the school bus thoughtfully,
works some arithmetic in his head; the simple equation he knows. Switched off
traffic lights plus abundant police is equal to a traffic stoppage plus extra
collection of money. And extra money is reciprocal to a big meal at the Daira.
A big meal! Salaam slurps. A
smile dissolves in his artificially-frowning features. The shadow-man whose job
is to shadow the beggars working at this square all day, passes him a glare.
Salaam is not allowed to smile during begging time. He must save all the smiles for
the evening gathering at the Daira where he's sometimes made to dance and entertain older beggars.
Riders are grumbling fiercely
now. If it’s a minister for whom they’ve stopped the traffic, it’ll take 15
minutes. If it’s the CM, the Chief Minister, it’ll be no less than 30.
And then a rumor seeps down the squirmy
band of vehicles - fast as a bullet:
It’s the Prime Minister. The
PM.
Two greedy little ears devour the rumor. Salam
has no inkling of what distinguishes a minister from a CM or a CM from a PM. However, his
mental math is at work again. The word Prime Minister equals an even longer
stoppage and that means even more money and even more money means an even bigger
meal.
He hides behind the big
graying tree, takes out the water-filled syringe from his pocket and presses
its piston close to his eyes. Water tears spread around his eye bags and skid
down his dirt-stained cheeks.
Work begins. Window after
window, he whines the new story his trainer at the Daira has taught him. As for
a veteran stage actor, the world hazes out as he plays the role of a heartsick orphan
who needs to collect twenty two hundred rupees for the burial of his mother who
has died last night. Coins and petti currency notes rain out from big hands
into Salaam’s small ones. He keeps stuffing them in his pocket.
Tears dry up and he has to
rush to the tree to wet his eyes again. He sees that a row of beggars and
pedestrians holding small national flags has lined up along the edges of the
square.
Suddenly, a tall man thrusts
a flag in his hands and says: “You’ll get a hundred rupees for standing there
and shouting “zinda-baad”
The words ‘A hundred rupees’
have no appeal for Salaam. He can collect the amount in ten minutes by bringing that
extra woeful look to his face and, anyway, the money would go into Ustaad’s
kitty in the evening. But holding a flag and shouting zinda-baad sounds like fun... like precious minutes of a
mid-morning break in schools. Staring at the school bus once again, he accepts
the flag from the tall man and joins the unkempt cheer-leaders. He flutters the flag this way and that, now smiling freely because shadow man is nowhere close.
To employ utmost vigilance, a
policeman with eagle-like mustaches is feeling the bodies of the cheerers holding
little green-and-white flags. He pulls it out if he feels anything suspicious;
cigarette packs, cheap wallets. Nothing serious has been found so far.
It’s Salaam’s turn. The man with
eagle-like mustaches pats Salam’s body. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He feels his
secret pocket. A frown appears on his face. He draws out the object that has spawned the
frown and holds it up for his senior official to see.
It’s a syringe filled with
light brown liquid.
“Grab him!” the official
shouts.
Curious eyes behind quashed
noses in the dewy school-bus windows, spread out with horror.
“A terrorist boy!” the
teacher in the bus whispers.
And Salaam is hauled towards
the gigantic police van.
