TRANSLATED FROM THE HINDI BY RITUPARNA MUKHERJEE

It was an afternoon at Connaught Place. Filled with the middling populace of June. 

The two of us, a writer couple, came out of the Indian Coffee house after a cup of coffee and asked the paan-seller near Regal to prepare our favorite paan.

“Take flowers for your hair, sister… they’re real jasmines.”

Turning my head to the young flower seller, I said a little rudely, “They might be. Even so, I don’t want any flowers.” His dirty shirt and knickers wafted an odor of sweat. Wrinkling my nose away, I thought to myself, “Real jasmines don’t only grow on trees.”

“Take one, won’t you, Madam! Three rupees for one—I’ll give you two for five!”

“I don’t want your flowers even if you give me five garlands for five. I don’t put these on my hair. Don’t nag me.” I became frustrated at the paan-seller. How will he get business for his shop if he’s so dreadfully slow with his hands!

The boy didn’t budge. He waved the bunch of flower garlands haughtily in front of my face. The worn smell from the flowers implied that the withered flowers were indeed real. A latent sigh formed somewhere inside of me. 

“What nonsense is this! One can barely stand on this footpath thanks to you people—move this away from my face!” I couldn’t stand his obstinacy. 

“Just take one then madam, you can get it for a mere two rupees. I haven’t had a roti since morning. I will have one in your name.” Moving the flower garlands away, he mixed a little flattery and cunning in his voice. 

My husband, ignoring the boy, handed me a paan. “Shall we move then? Let us walk till Barakhamba, from there we’ll get a bus.”

“Madam, you can get a paan for two and a half rupees but not a flower garland for two?”, the boy said a little irked.

My husband boiled over at the boy’s insolence, “Get lost, you bastard, why are you after us? Do we owe you anything? And if you really want to sell, why don’t you go a prostitute lane? You will sell them all.”

“These fellows have no manners…”

“Don’t take them then, don’t take even one, but why are you hurling abuse?” Suddenly angered, the boy plucked out the flowers from his bunch of garlands and strewed them all over the footpath. 

We were stunned into silence. We wouldn’t have bled at that moment if cut, perhaps. 

A few people nearby moved towards us, perplexed. 

Trying to dissolve the irritation, my husband caught hold of the boy’s elbow, “You are hungry, aren’t you? Come, I’ll feed you at Kaka’s dhaba. Don’t be cross now.”

“I spit at your food, I don’t want any of that!”, tugging his elbow away, the boy stormed into the crowd. 

We felt bad. I said, “Come let’s take the scooter.”

Waving at a scooter, he said, “If this country cannot take care of its children, why are there so many of them here…?”

Two months elapsed after this incident.

One winter evening, we were out of the Indian Coffee house and headed towards Regal, when we saw a boy folded his hands and respectfully offered a namaskar. Dressed in decent clothes, we recognized the boy in a moment. 

“You!”, both of us gasped together.

“Yes, babuji, it’s me.” Bending down, the boy touched my husband’s feet, “The path that you had shown me, it has really been fruitful for me! My days have changed. I manage to earn seventy-eighty rupees per day with a labor of two-two and half hours. People say this locality is that of rich people, but their hearts are poorer than the rickshaw and tanga-pullers. I could only sell two-four garlands before after fifty rounds. Each lane is different here, you see, Babuji.”

“I’ll take your leave, Babuji!”, folding his hands again, the boy quickly merged into the crowd. Our feet meanwhile lost their pace. 

Also, read a book review of the novella Chronicle Of A Death Foretold  by Gabriel García Márquez , written by Ankita Bose, and published in The Antonym:

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