Unfamiliar poverty

As I run through the dusty lanes on my way back home from school, which feels heavier I don’t know, my heart or the bag on my shoulders, as I think of the trouble I would get into. I knew that my parents wouldn’t believe a word of mine. Finally, panting, I knock twice on the door as it creaks open, hoping I wasn’t in too much trouble. Mom stands in the doorway crossed, hands on her hips. Oh yes I am, I think.

“Where in the world were you, Aditi ?!” she asks. “Mom, I had extra classes-” I start exasperatedly, only to be cut off by my father. “Must’ve been roamin’ around with those friends of hers.” There they go again, suspecting me for everything. I push through them and make my way to my room. God, I didn’t have the time for this, I think as I sit down at my desk. Head in hands, I think of the darned speech I had to prepare for. “Prepare for public speaking in two days,” my English teacher had said, her wrinkled brow creased, the topic being ‘Poverty’. And I didn’t have the faintest idea about what to say. I cringe, thinking about the embarrassment each time I stand tongue-tied in front of the class. And that’s when a figure outside the window catches my eye. The poor little boy I saw every day in his tattered clothes, on his way to buy some bread from the bakery for lunch. Lunch. My mouth water as I wonder what was for lunch today. But as I leaned further out the window, my elbow hits a vase and I watch helplessly as it shatters to a million pieces on the ground. I hear shuffling outside the door. “No lunch for you today.” And then the click of a lock.

I was on my way back home from school the next day when I spot the same boy outside my school. Oh, what's he doing here? “Hey” I approach him. “Hello,” he says, head down and briskly walking away from me. “Um- hey! I’m not here to mock you or anything!” I say as he stops and looks up at me. “Then?” “I’m here to help,” I say, looking into those eyes wide with I’m not sure what, hunger or hope.

Minutes later, we sit in a restaurant, me watching the little guy eating his food mouthful by mouthful. He abruptly stops. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks. “Oh no, I quite full,” I say, ignoring the grumbling in my stomach. He finishes eating his paranthas. He tries to hide it but I see that he's hungry for more. "Another one please," I order to a waiter passing by. “Come to think of it, I never asked your name,” I say as he goes back to eating. “Oh, I'm Raja,” he says, perking up. Raja. As in ‘king’ in our language I think, considering the irony of his name.

We then walk along the park, talking about each other's lives. I soon learn about his single mother and siblings. They lived in a makeshift house by the roadside, barely scraping by. He listens with awe as I talk about school and home. “What does your mother work as?” I ask him. “She teaches at a school,” he says. “Oh, isn’t that enough to fend for a family?” I ask him, surprised. “Well, after feeding my grandparents and the poor child labourers out on the street, there is precious little left for all of us,” he says. Indeed. I think, Only the poor often help the poor. For only they know what hunger feels like, don’t they?

As I sit in class, my palms grow sweaty thinking about my speech. Two more girls until my chance, I think nervously. And I haven’t prepared even a word since I was too caught up with Raja the previous day. “Next, Aditi !” I hear my name being called out. I walk over to the front of the class and stand there, words caught up in my throat. What do I say? Everybody stares at me, expecting. “Um,” I start. Should I say that I’m not prepared yet? And that’s when it comes to me all at once. Raja and his poverty, his poor family helping the poor around them, this inherent quality the poor possessed that was lacking in the arrogant rich. And just like that, I feel my stage fear melting away as words pour out of my mouth- rather, it pours out from my very heart and I end my speech, earning an applause from the class. “Well done,” the teacher says smiling, dimples on her wrinkled face.

I walk out the school gates, looking around for my little friend. “Hey!” he says cheerfully, running up to me. He doesn’t say anything, but his twinkling eyes indicated everything. He wanted yesterday to happen again. “Hey...” I say, searching around in my pockets for the lunch money I had saved for him. “Here you go,” I say, pressing the money into his hands. “Sorry I can’t come with you… gotta prepare for my exam” I say. “Oh,” he says, looking down at the money. “I shouldn’t take it...” “It’s okay” I cut him off, smiling. “You need it more.” His hollow eyes grow teary, not used to others helping him. “Thank you!” he pipes, engulfing me in a warm hug. My mind flits back to just yesterday when he refused to even talk to me.

We then exchange goodbyes and as I start walking back home, I hear Raja's voice. “Mom!” I turn around and stop in my tracks as I watch him running into my English teachers open hands, laughing. “Mom, you won’t believe what happened to me!” he pipes, looking up at his mother. My teacher looks towards my direction, her wrinkles deeper than ever.

I smile, pushing my hands into my empty pockets. My stomach grumbled. Indeed, the poor often help the poor. For only they know what hunger feels like, don’t they?