The Half Truth

Little Saint

‘Hare Rama, Hare Krishhna’ sang a shrill voice on the crowded nizamuddin station. Ten year old Trilok’s voice merged with the cries of the vendors and trailed off. His black eyes twinkled with joy and his dark brown face lit up when he sang and his dirty hands moved rapidly. His friends on the station, who sold peanuts and other things, often listened to him sing after their day’s job.
‘Ah! A 2 rupee coin!’ He picked up the coin which a passer by had thrown generously on his dirty and torn rag where he sat everyday from morning to night playing two broken pieces of tile and singing bhajans.
He had earned a good rupees twelve and he headed towards a local vendor.
‘Give a 505 beedi. Do you have a matchstick?’ And he stood leaning against a pillar surrounded by a cloud of smoke.
This had been his life from the past three years. He had never been to a school because he was afraid of the masterji, who beat the kids with a stick, as told to him by his mother.
As the night descended, he counted his earnings, Rs. 27. On a good day, he earned up to Rs. 40. Alone, he walked towards his one room hut, adjacent to the garbage place. His mother and sister were no where in sight. Maybe they hadn’t returned yet from their cleaning jobs. The hunger pangs rose. He hadn’t had a bite since nine in the morning. His father lay on the floor with an empty bottle next to him. Trilok ignored him and lay down near the opposite wall. He had never liked his drunkard father who didn’t work at all. Her mother and 2 sisters along with him ran the household. His father ensured that they earned enough for his alcohol too.
‘Oye, Trilok! Come hither. How much have you managed to earn today with your filthy voice, eh?’
No answer
‘Don’t you listen, you fool? Your Amma has turned you into a brat. I said give me the money.’
‘I won’t’ shouted back Trilok. ‘I don’t want my hard earned money to be wasted in your alcohol. Take the money from Amma.’
‘To hell with your amma. Give me the damn money.’
And without waiting for a reply, he kicked the boy’s fragile frame hard in the stomach and searched his pocket. Trilok gathered his strength and pushed off his father. He was dried off all the emotions and respect for his father long before. His angry father caught him by his dirty brown hair and smashed his head against the mud wall.
Trilok felt the hut moving around him and fell unconscious. He woke up with the noise in the street. It was morning; the street was full of busy people. He recalled last night’s incident and felt his pockets for the money and then his eyes fell on the three empty bottles lying near his father. His mother and sister had already left. He stood up, took his tiles and rag and proceeded for the station, where he could lighten his pain by singing out his woes.