The Contrast

I used to drive by them almost everyday. At the Koramangala Ring Road Junction, a group of children would run up to the vehicles when the lights turned red. The boys usually barechested and the girls in flimsy mud-coloured frocks, they would quickly split up and walk through the traffic. It was the same routine everyday, they moved along tapping on windows trying to get the driver's attention, the dirt on their faces pressed up against the glass. Most were ignored deliberately, sometimes a coin or two was handed out by the saahibs.
And then the lights would turn, a million honks would drown those soundless pleas for help. They would run back, sometimes tripping over, hurrying back to the pavement where their mother sat on the ground. Sometimes, if the baby she nursed wasn't crying, she would run her hands over their oily, discoloured hair when they returned. A few more red lights and maybe they'd have enough for some roti...


***


I pass by him almost everyday. He stands on George Street, leaning against the wall, watching the traffic drive by. He's wearing Nike sneakers, his jeans are slightly torn. The wind is chilly but he doesn't seem cold. His hands are snuggled deep within his sweatshirt pocket. As I walk past him, he whispers to me, catching me off-guard.
"Some change, mate?"
I look at him confused. He has his eyebrows raised, his unshaven face stares at me with curiosity. The universe seems to stop for a second as my mind rushes back to Koramangala.
I evade his eyes. I don't know what to say...