The flashy red car screeched to a halt, the 20-something college student pursing his lips in resentment at having missed the 60-second green pass at the traffic signal below the flyover. It was a scorching June evening, and despite the effective air-conditioning in his car, he would have to wait an 'agonizing' 180 seconds before he could take a speedy right turn and zoom towards his waiting-at-home-iced cola.
A blue car pulled up next to the first – albeit slowly, the middle-aged man driving it fishing out his phone to return that unattended call...
The cab of riotous young corporates sidled up next – clearly having the time of their lives by singing at the top of their voices – it was a Friday and they looked forward to a well-deserved weekend with family and friends...
A pretty young thing sat in the passenger seat of the sleek 30-lac plus pair of wheels that had purred alongside the cab. She looked at what appeared to be a chipped nail from an otherwise perfect manicure, a plaintive look writ large over her subtly made-up face.
The couple in the adjacent car had erupted into another fight, the hapless guy wringing his hands uneasily – his beau had issued yet another ultimatum to him, perhaps.
A motorcyclist doffed his bulky helmet, relishing what could only be described as a gust of blasting-hot wind. He then proceeds to give equal attention between the quarrelling couple and the pretty young thing.
And then everyone saw him.
A boy of barely 14 staggered-up to the stationary vehicles. At first glance, it appeared as if a stack of books were trudging valiantly to the waiting motorists. Of course that was highly improbable and a closer look revealed a spindly-thin boy who huffed-and-puffed his steps towards these people.
Self help books, potboilers, best sellers, science fiction, biographies, memoirs, travelogues, romances, anthologies, horror – he had them all. He wiped his dripping-with-perspiration face, and ventures to the first car.
The still-checking-out-her-chipped-nail girl glanced at him, dismissing him with a condescending eye.
The college-goer with the flashy red car displays all his pearlies to the boy, shaking his head vigorously from side to side. Whether it was to discourage the boy from making a customer out of him or to keep sync with the music that blared from the music-player, it had the desired effect – the boy nodded, happy to have seen one cheerful, friendly face, and moves on.
Next is the motorcyclist who scratches his head, clucks his tongue in annoyance, growling at the boy to leave him in peace.
The middle-aged man too, in the midst of an earnest conversation, frowns at him. The boy, not to be brushed aside so easily, proceeds with jabbing at one particular novel, murmuring how it was the latest bestseller. The man, clearly in no mood for purchasing the latest Jeffrey Archer, rolls down his window and rebukes – ‘Samajh main nahi aata – nahi chahiyey?(Don’t you understand – I don’t want?’)
The boy flinches, an alarmed look on his face, and plods to the office cab.
The noisy corporates jeer at him, composing songs about people who read books and died sad, lonely deaths.
Recoiling from their attack, the puzzled boy shuffles to the squabbling couple who looked close to exchanging blows and inflicting some serious physical damage on each other. The girl pauses to catch her breath from her nagging, cribbing bout, and the same second espies the young bookseller. She rolls down the car window and rattles off the names of a couple of books. The boy nods, checks with her if she would pay the quoted price, and when she replies in the affirmative, leaves all his books trustingly on the pavement below the flyover, dashing off to the next traffic intersection. Within less than a minute, he had returned with one of the two titles that the girl had asked for, and clasps the hundred-rupee note victoriously that she held out.
The run was worth it, and he caresses the currency note, smoothening out its creases, pocketing it, and returning to the pavement where he had placed his books.
The light turned green, and it was time for him to move to the next traffic signal.
With a spring in his step, despite the blazing heat, he wipes the perspiration from his forehead yet again, hums a tuneless song, and lumbers to the next batch of waiting motorists.
After all, even after he paid his daily quota to his owner, he could buy a humble meal for his mother and himself.
Maybe he would also pretend to read to her from one of the many books he sold – she would smile with great pride that her son could ‘Angrezi’ (English), not knowing that he usually created stories for her based on the many people he came across everyday at the traffic signals he frequented…
It was a good day and he looked up at the sky in gratitude...
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