I saw him first, when i looked into the mirror. All of ten, maybe twelve, his thin frame bent over the shop window that he was cleaning. Something about him caught my eye. He was after all the same height as my son, and i was trying to buy clothes for him from the 'mega sale' in the shop in which he worked. Trying to, i say, because any mother will vouch how difficult it is to buy clothes for a teen. I stood poring over the t-shirts, picking each one up, measuring it for size against myself, trying to judge whether it was just the length he wore. Not too short, or too long. not too jazzy, yet colorful enough to go with the blue of his jeans. People who say girls are tough to shop for ? Don't have teenage boys.
I looked up yet again to find him looking at me, his eyes met mine. He grinned cheekily as if he knew my dilemma, and i couldn't help smiling sheepishly back. Next thing i knew, he was gesturing furtively at the tee shirt i was holding, and shaking his head indicating a firm 'no'. At first, i was indignant and turned my back to him. But i dropped the offending garment back and rifled thru the selection again. Seizing one that had seemed loud to me, i turned around with it and found him smiling his approval. Caught up with the game, i then picked out three to four t shirts, my teenaged cohort, giving his stamp of approval from outside, or disapproving as the case may be. In no time at all i had done with my shopping and headed towards the exit.
Outside, i beckoned to him, drawing a chocolate bar from my bag, i offered it to him, along with a ten rupee note. Giving me a mock bow, he delicately took both from my proffered hand, offering to carry my bags for me. I refused his offer, saying a 'thank you' to him, to which he replied graciously, "Welcome Ma'am." As i sank into the cab, i was amazed at myself. I realised i might have been a tad foolish to have trusted the judgement of a street urchin, for my fashion conscious teen. After all there was a world of difference between them.
With trepidition, i took out the clothes i had bought and displayed them before my son. Immersed in his i pod, i usually got a grunt or two of approval from him if he liked my choices. As the black tee, with the nike logo emerged from the bag, he sat up straight, and looked at me wide eyed. When i withdrew the faded blue tee with the bright blue football print, he gasped and took out his headphones. As the red with the Che Guevera print followed, he grasped it with both hands. But the one that had him ecstatic was the grey, with a brown stetson hat printed in faux leather on the front. Posing in front of the mirror, the tee shirt draped around his shoulder, his eyes sparkling, he drawled, "Stranger ! What have you done with my mother?" Hugging me he exclaimed, " Best stuff, you ever bought ma, love you!"
The next day, i was back at the shop. The boy was nowhere in sight. Searching for him, i asked the shopkeeper if he knew his whereabouts. he shrugged, saying he just appeared when he needed money, did a few odd jobs, then disappeared. "Probably comes from the slums, nearby, ma'am."
Disappointed i emerged and was still looking around, when i saw him standing a few shops away. Frail, but standing upright, leaning against a door jamb, he stood whistling softly. A lump in my throat, i stood in the shadows, watching him. What was it about him ? Attitude, i guess. The attitude that he wore as a defence against the world, attitude that masked his vulnerability. The street smartness of the street urchin. Too small to take on the world, but doing just that. His survival instinct, honed by the vicious, uncaring world in which he lived.
Today, i beckoned him. Surprised he looked up, then came towards me eagerly, engaging grin in place. I handed him the packet i had brought for him. In wonderment he looked at me, then opened it eagerly. As the identical tee shirts that i had bought yesterday, but in different colors today, spilled out, he turned away from me. Lost in his gifts, his hands holding the soft fabric against his cheeks, his face awestruck, he turned back, his eyes searching for me. Seated in the car, i waved at him, then drove off. His face glistening with tears, the cocky facade, replaced with a wondrous joy, i had more than received his thanks. Instead he had enriched me in a way i could't begin to comprehend.
I looked up yet again to find him looking at me, his eyes met mine. He grinned cheekily as if he knew my dilemma, and i couldn't help smiling sheepishly back. Next thing i knew, he was gesturing furtively at the tee shirt i was holding, and shaking his head indicating a firm 'no'. At first, i was indignant and turned my back to him. But i dropped the offending garment back and rifled thru the selection again. Seizing one that had seemed loud to me, i turned around with it and found him smiling his approval. Caught up with the game, i then picked out three to four t shirts, my teenaged cohort, giving his stamp of approval from outside, or disapproving as the case may be. In no time at all i had done with my shopping and headed towards the exit.
Outside, i beckoned to him, drawing a chocolate bar from my bag, i offered it to him, along with a ten rupee note. Giving me a mock bow, he delicately took both from my proffered hand, offering to carry my bags for me. I refused his offer, saying a 'thank you' to him, to which he replied graciously, "Welcome Ma'am." As i sank into the cab, i was amazed at myself. I realised i might have been a tad foolish to have trusted the judgement of a street urchin, for my fashion conscious teen. After all there was a world of difference between them.
With trepidition, i took out the clothes i had bought and displayed them before my son. Immersed in his i pod, i usually got a grunt or two of approval from him if he liked my choices. As the black tee, with the nike logo emerged from the bag, he sat up straight, and looked at me wide eyed. When i withdrew the faded blue tee with the bright blue football print, he gasped and took out his headphones. As the red with the Che Guevera print followed, he grasped it with both hands. But the one that had him ecstatic was the grey, with a brown stetson hat printed in faux leather on the front. Posing in front of the mirror, the tee shirt draped around his shoulder, his eyes sparkling, he drawled, "Stranger ! What have you done with my mother?" Hugging me he exclaimed, " Best stuff, you ever bought ma, love you!"
The next day, i was back at the shop. The boy was nowhere in sight. Searching for him, i asked the shopkeeper if he knew his whereabouts. he shrugged, saying he just appeared when he needed money, did a few odd jobs, then disappeared. "Probably comes from the slums, nearby, ma'am."
Disappointed i emerged and was still looking around, when i saw him standing a few shops away. Frail, but standing upright, leaning against a door jamb, he stood whistling softly. A lump in my throat, i stood in the shadows, watching him. What was it about him ? Attitude, i guess. The attitude that he wore as a defence against the world, attitude that masked his vulnerability. The street smartness of the street urchin. Too small to take on the world, but doing just that. His survival instinct, honed by the vicious, uncaring world in which he lived.
Today, i beckoned him. Surprised he looked up, then came towards me eagerly, engaging grin in place. I handed him the packet i had brought for him. In wonderment he looked at me, then opened it eagerly. As the identical tee shirts that i had bought yesterday, but in different colors today, spilled out, he turned away from me. Lost in his gifts, his hands holding the soft fabric against his cheeks, his face awestruck, he turned back, his eyes searching for me. Seated in the car, i waved at him, then drove off. His face glistening with tears, the cocky facade, replaced with a wondrous joy, i had more than received his thanks. Instead he had enriched me in a way i could't begin to comprehend.
wow! Who inspired the Che tshirt?!
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