At the Zebra Crossing...
He measured barely upto my knee, in height. Standing at the Zebra crossing, striped black and white! Waiting patiently, though impatience was written all over his face. Waiting for a gap in the evening traffic, so that he could race! I was waiting too, so looked at him and smiled. A boy he was, merely eight or ten years old. Ragged clothes, matted locks, he sure was a boy from the slum. His smile though was radiant, and his face, certainly not glum! Bright were his eyes, sparkling like the stars. He hummed a tune, poverty, for him, was not a bar! Held tightly were plastic packets, in his little clenched fingers. Daily ration for his family, some potatoes, rice, salt and ginger. So it was the prospect of food that made him happy, I thought. A lone meal at the end of the day, served piping hot! “Where do you stay”, I asked him, just to make some talk. “On the pavement across the road, he said as we began to walk. “I live with my mother, and my little sister, on a cot...