Our children typically need to be dragged out of bed every morning at 9 am, so that they can attend their online classes starting at 9:30 am. Today was no exception. We are a family of owls – we sleep late and wake up late, so our day is rather offset from most people. I was making breakfast, mentally noting to join an online call in less than an hour’s time. Pishi, who manages our home and hearth, began her usual chatter. Today, she was subdued. She usually reads the newspaper in the morning when we are still sleeping, and today she had been struck by one piece of news. She had just seen the photo of a boy, hardly ten years old, with a basket of taal (a palm fruit), and the accompanying piece said that his father could not afford a smartphone, so he bought these fruits for his son to sell. His son couldn’t go to school any more, the family could at least earn some money.
A few minutes later, my husband came downstairs, talking on the phone and asked if we needed to buy any meat. We had just finished our stock of red meat, the weather was rather hot and humid, so I said no. He returned a few minutes later. Our butcher, Jibon, a friendly and elderly man who has quite a booming business in the big market in our small but prosperous town, had asked his son to call. The father-son duo has been supplying us with excellent quality ever since the lockdown has been eased. The son, Suman, delivers at our doorstep, and they refuse to take the market rate from us. This is probably because we share Jibon’s love for dogs and cats. In fact, there are always half a dozen of the scavengers hanging around for scraps around his shop, and he always has some story to share with me about them. Today, the son reported, they had not had a single customer, though it was pretty late in the day, and nearing closing time for the first half. This was shocking news. It’s the beginning of the month, when business should have been booming, but obviously, it wasn’t. A couple of days ago, we had been the only two people buying fish in our regular haunt – the evening market, which is always full of people. Even on rainy evenings, we have never seen the place so empty. Our regular fish vendor, Aleep, had been there, but half the stalls had been closed. He had told us that the place has been like this for two weeks or so. We asked Suman to deliver, of course, and they promptly came by, with a bag full of supplies, and refused to take the market price again. In fact, when we tried telling them that they should not do this, the father admonished us paternally and said he will ask if he needs money. But today, he smiled, we had saved him.
I was about to join the meeting when I heard someone call from outside. Peeping out, I saw a father-son duo again, this time, not on a two-wheeler and not so cleanly dressed, and much younger. A young to idle aged man with a little boy of seven or eight, in rather ragged clothes but faces diligently covered by masks, waited outside our gate. The father works as a labourer and mason in building projects. He has been jobless ever since the lockdown. Their landlord has been threatening to throw them out. They haven’t been able to pay the rent of Rs.2000 for six months now. He has three children, the youngest is only 1.5 years old. If his wife could find work as a housemaid, it would help. But how can he ask her to work, leaving the little child at home? Talking of his daughter, his eyes shone with pride and love, I could sense him smiling under the cloth that he had wrapped around his face and head as a mask. She is beautiful, he told me, you are from a rich family, but even you would want to pick her up if you saw her. I felt the gaping divide between us – much, much, wider than the few feet distance that I was maintaining. He wasn’t there to beg; he was looking for work, anything that would help him to earn something. Can I allow him to work in our garden? I had to tell him that we have a gardener. They have been sustaining on the ration of rice and potatoes that his son has been receiving once a month from his school. He had gone to the ward office, nobody helped him, nobody gave them rations. I offered the boy a fruit and gave the father some money and food to take back home. The little boy was very hesitant; his father told me that he is terrified of the Corona. I assured him that I had washed the fruit. He finally took it, but didn’t eat it. He looked at me askance. The father’s eyes were grateful, the son’s fearful. I felt like a monster. My children were upstairs, attending online classes on two different gadgets. I was about to join a happy hour meeting on a third. This boy was walking around in the sun with his father, looking for help, just to survive.
At lunch, I told the children, please eat a little extra fish and vegetables, so that we may need to buy more soon.
kathaykathay 