They stood outside her house. Two girls, about five and six years of age, and a boy of about three. Their mother who accompanied them, was a beggar who lived under that great umbrella, the J J flyover. She was the harridan of the building, a widow staying alone. The neighbours generally minded their own business, all except her. So when the kids came to live with her, there was disbelief, at first, followed by indignation that she was rearing not one or two, but three beggars in her one bedroomed home.
Eventually it was realised by all that the kids doubled as unpaid, underfed house help. Where the neighbours were constantly tormented by the vagaries of the 'bai', mumbai's notorious house helps, she lived like a queen, served hand and foot by the kids. They too had a roof above their heads and a place to call home.
The years passed. The girls grew from scraggy, emaciated kids to comely teens, who had started schooling, They would patiently do their homework sitting outside her home, when she was away. on festive occassions they would emerge dressed in their finery. She would sit and pore over their homework painstakingly.Even the neighbours would greet them occasionally. The scornful sneers gave way to benign looks. She told anyone who would listen that she had adopted them. That, more than her own family, they were her own.
It was early morning, that fateful sunday, when we awoke to a row. The neighbours all gathered as the kids wailed and beat their heads. She had suffered an attack early morning, and was no more. They came, all her prodigal kin, if only to assert their rights over her worldly belongings. The mother of the children stood shell shocked, holding her kids close, consoling them, looking bewildered and frightened at this sudden turn of events.
For sometime afterwards, all of them disappeared. Guiltily almost the neighbours asked each other about them, but no one knew their whereabouts.
It was raining heavily, when my car stopped at the intersection. Pitying the plight of the poor rabble huddled under the flyover, i thought isaw a familiar face. Peering into the gloom, I recognised them, the mother huddled with her kids, shrinking back into the plastic which protected them from the merciless rain.
Eventually it was realised by all that the kids doubled as unpaid, underfed house help. Where the neighbours were constantly tormented by the vagaries of the 'bai', mumbai's notorious house helps, she lived like a queen, served hand and foot by the kids. They too had a roof above their heads and a place to call home.
The years passed. The girls grew from scraggy, emaciated kids to comely teens, who had started schooling, They would patiently do their homework sitting outside her home, when she was away. on festive occassions they would emerge dressed in their finery. She would sit and pore over their homework painstakingly.Even the neighbours would greet them occasionally. The scornful sneers gave way to benign looks. She told anyone who would listen that she had adopted them. That, more than her own family, they were her own.
It was early morning, that fateful sunday, when we awoke to a row. The neighbours all gathered as the kids wailed and beat their heads. She had suffered an attack early morning, and was no more. They came, all her prodigal kin, if only to assert their rights over her worldly belongings. The mother of the children stood shell shocked, holding her kids close, consoling them, looking bewildered and frightened at this sudden turn of events.
For sometime afterwards, all of them disappeared. Guiltily almost the neighbours asked each other about them, but no one knew their whereabouts.
It was raining heavily, when my car stopped at the intersection. Pitying the plight of the poor rabble huddled under the flyover, i thought isaw a familiar face. Peering into the gloom, I recognised them, the mother huddled with her kids, shrinking back into the plastic which protected them from the merciless rain.
youre just too good..allyour pieces take unexpected turns..
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