31.07.2002 | 7:49 p.m.
on a typical Bombay morning

He knocked relentlessly on the window of the icy blue car I was sitting in. He had to stretch with all his might to make his untouchable hands reach the glass but he still remained unacknowledged. I stared abstractedly ahead of me at clumps of metal and paint stopped by the same red light. The sun was magnanimous; the air was pregnant with the monsoon and the little boy trying to get my attention didn't notice. It didn't matter that his bare back was burnt or that beads of persipiration had formed above his lip. He just wanted me to look at glossy magazine covers. He thought it would buy him bread and butter and perhaps a few biscuits. He didn't realise that the money would never be his. He believed fervently in "next time" despite its constant betrayal. Heroin kept the seven year old alive but next time,food would. He would have a feast, with algae infested water to wash it all down.

I didn't have the heart to break his faith. He continued banging on the window and trying to position his wares in my direct line of vision. His innocence annoyed me and I mentally prepared a tirade to launch into. But as I began to roll the window down, his eyes gleamed with a silver hope that broke my heart. I softly told him that he was wasting his time and that he should move to the next car. He pointed to the cover of Cosmopolitan and advised me to buy the magazine if I wanted to look like the cover girl. I said I didn't want to and he said I didn't need to. I rolled the window back up. His words were now blocked by the glass on which his frustration had made its mark. The light turned green. We drove away. He hung his head and waited for someone else's validation.

deja vu? | jamais vu?