In the bustling streets of my city, amidst the honking and swarming crowds, there is a heart-wrenching sight that comes to my mind daily – the sight of a beggar boy, barely a teenager, whose face reflects his tender years.
The boy’s posture reveals the weight on his shoulders. His weathered and worn hand tells a story of struggle beyond his years. His ragged clothes hang loosely from his frail frame, his bare feet hard and stiffened by the unforgiving floor below.
There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, a silent plea that pierces the mask of indifference covering the world around him.
The road becomes his stage, the temporary theater of his survival, where this beggar boy plays the helpless beggar in an endless drama of poverty and despair. The road is both a refuge and a prison. It provides him with a momentary feeling of freedom amidst the constraints of urban poverty while serving as a constant reminder of the harsh realities he faces every day.
I lowered the car mirror and handed him a handful of pennies. However, it was disheartening to see that my gesture failed to bring even the slightest hint of joy to his face. His eyes remained lifeless.
It left me frozen for the rest of my life.