FOOTPATH TALES 2: DESTINYS FLOTSAM

The second of the Footpath Tales follows the fortunes of 12 year old street urchin Kiran, introduced in the first story. This second story in the trilogy also introduces several new players who although their paths cross with Kiran's, are noteworthy characters in their own right. (Perhaps I will return to the world of Footpath Tales to write some more about these new characters if readers wish me to.) 

Readers should note this longer story is altogether a much darker tale, rooted as it as in real and routine events that occur in many towns and cities. If this were a film instead of a story it could be said to fall somewhere between film noir and cinma vrit, except that it still holds out hope and shows the triumph of the human spirit in the face of adversity.

FOOTPATH TALES 2: Destiny's Flotsam

Circuit Dev had a talent for electronic devices - fixing, collecting and selling them. His ramshackle little corner shop in a run-down district of Delhi was nothing much to look at. Although the big brand-name smartphones, iPads and computer gear were mostly display items, out of reach of the local community, the shop window also boasted cheaper android devices and mobile phones which were the bread and butter of his business. 

At heart Circuit Dev was an enthusiast when it came to electronics. As a teenager he had been interested in the newly emerging technology of computing. It was through his skills in fixing broken or malfunctioning devices while an adolescent that he first realised that there was money to be made in this specialist field. That fact was also instrumental in him applying to study for his degree in computing and IT. By the time he was studying for his degree, he was like so many other computer fanatics, obsessed with his hero Steve Jobs. He was a hobbyist building his own computers and other devices that required printed circuits. Dev was also a problem solver who could fix most faulty electronic equipment, whether it was the older Sony Walkman devices, PCs, or modern hi-fi decks. Early on he learned that electronic repairs was where the money was to be made. 

By the time he was in his second year of study, his older sister Divya was engaged to be married. One day in late March, mother and daughter had gone shopping for wedding outfits. A fully laden truck ploughed into the side of the bus, where his family were seated. That day Dev's world was turned upside down. His dream of an IT degree, a married sister and a happy family life with his parents was shattered when his sister and mother were killed in that bus accident. It had been difficult enough to cope financially when his father had been seriously injured three years earlier in an accident at the factory where he worked. As someone severely disabled, his father was financially compensated with a pitiful amount and invalided out of work. With the loss of his mother and sister, it now fell to him to earn enough to feed and look after his sickly father. No easy task as he discovered over the next couple of years. 

Slowly Dev had built up his business by means both foul and fair. He initially held down a job at a store selling televisions, radios, cassettes and other electronic goods. However he found it necessary to supplement his income by repairing such goods at home, in his own spare time. The customer contacts he made at the store gave him a potential pool of customers requiring repairs, in addition to the folk in his district who regularly came to him with their problems with machines of all sorts. Given his knowledge of computers he built up a data base of customers who had their computers serviced regularly and he also offered trouble-shooting for PC problems. The income generated was just sufficient for him to rent a run-down shop from which to conduct his business. 

It was not long before Dev was involved in producing pirate tapes and CDs. He didn't mass produce them since he didn't have the human or financial resources necessary. He just produced high quality master tapes or CDs which were sold to various middle tier criminals. It was to be expected that before long his criminal contacts were soon using him to shift some of the pirated goods. His expertise in electronics soon generated further more specialised work from those who wanted single use untraceable mobile phones, or simply wanted stolen phones reconditioned' for sale. The petty criminals in the area knew where to off-load stolen phones, CD players and the like. That was why Circuit Dev was so well known in the district. 

You could say Joseph D'Souza and Circuit Dev had history together. Furthermore Joseph had a great deal of time and affection for Dev considering that when he first began his life on the streets of Delhi, it was the businessman who had helped him. The first occasion was when Joseph was new to picking pockets and was being chased by two policemen after an act of petty larceny went wrong. If Dev hadn't hidden Joseph and lied to the police about his whereabouts, the then twelve year old would have been placed in the lock-up. To dissuade him from his line of work, he would have probably been beaten badly by the police. 

Matters could have ended there, but Dev had offered him some casual work, making deliveries - not too many questions asked. The truth was Dev's immune system had decided to attack the tissues around his joints. He developed rheumatoid arthritis and found it difficult to walk any great distance or stand for prolonged periods. Though he could afford the drugs necessary to help with his condition they caused him severe stomach cramps. Often, he avoided taking the medication. He was therefore in need of a strong agile lad like Joseph to help out with deliveries and the general running around his line of business required. What troubled Dev was that the arthritis was affecting his finger joints, making sorting repairs increasingly difficult. He worried about the day he could no longer carry out this function with which his self-esteem was so intimately bound. 

Circuit Dev was more than a mere employer - he had gone out of his way to teach and guide Joseph. From him, the nave teenager had learned a great deal about how the criminal side of the city operated - what big names ran drugs, who controlled the prostitution racket and who operated the illicit gambling. Quickly, the lad learned which people he should steer clear of and which petty criminals he had a chance of dealing with without being hurt or snitched on. Joseph could never have become the confident and skilled young man he was today without the assistance he had received from the man he had come to call Dev Uncle. It was therefore not surprising that he felt guilty that he hadn't seen Dev for six months - around the time when the man's disabled father had died from pneumonia. Though death was a blessing in disguise for the long suffering father, whose needs made huge demands on his uncomplaining son, Dev still took it badly. He no longer carried that burden, but equally he missed his father's presence in what had now become a very lonely home. Deep down the young man knew that his own inability to articulate his feelings for Dev's situation was responsible for him staying away for so long. 

When Joseph entered the corner shop, Circuit Dev was busy with a newly married couple who were interested in buying a couple of mobile phones. Joseph gave a polite cough to draw the attention of the owner. Dev's face broke into a broad grin of pleasure at seeing the youth he had nurtured. Quickly her excused himself for a moment from his customers and rounded the counter to greet an infrequently seen friend. 

"Joseph, you young rascal!"

"Dev Uncle..." Joseph's smile was as broad as his mentor's. 

"Mein socha tu neh mayra patta bhuladiyah," (I thought you'd forgotten my address) he gently chided the young man, even as he put a fatherly arm around his shoulders. 

"Kabhi nehi!" (Never) 

Dev then broke into English. "How have you been, my boy? I haven't seen you in ages!" 

"I'm fine, Uncle. How's your arthritis these days?

He tried to sound casual, but from the occasional grimace he gave, it was clear the man was in pain. "Better today than yesterday I suppose." 

"Sorry I haven't dropped by before - but I've been busy."

"With work, or with the girls you handsome boy?" he was teased. Joseph blushed. Dev knew that with the hormones flooding that teenage body, Joseph had an eye for the girls, but for some reason always held back. Dev couldn't understand that. 

"With work," he replied emphatically. "In fact that's why I'm calling on you now." Joseph pointed wordlessly at the customers with his chin. A secret look was exchanged between former boss and employee. 

"Let me take care of the couple first and then we'll talk." 

Dev returned to the customers and gave them his best sales pitch. After a further ten minutes, the transaction had been completed and he returned to Joseph who had been eyeing up the new merchandise on display. "So what have you brought me?" asked the businessman without further chit-chat. 

The shop was empty but to be perfectly safe, Dev locked the entrance. Only then did Joseph open the plastic carrier bag and withdraw an iPad. "So what d'you think?" 

The expert eye gave the item a thorough inspection. "Nice...16GB too!...very nice...I think I know a few people who might be in the market for this." Ten minutes later, the business aspect of the meeting was concluded. 

While Circuit Dev was keen to catch up on old times and the latest personal news, Joseph was impatient to return to the streets. It was clear that the man was lonely and wanted to chat. For a little while Joseph indulged him and even tried to casually raise the subject of Dev taking a step he had always refused - getting married. In the past the reason for the refusal was he didn't wish to burden his new wife with looking after his sickly father. Now that wasn't an issue any longer, there was nothing to stop him. 

Though Dev was touched by the lad's concern for his welfare, he waved away the suggestion. "And why would a woman marry a cripple like me? Besides you forget I'm now too old to play the role of Majnu." 

"Since when was age a barrier to marriage, Uncle?" 

"And what about these?" he asked bitterly holding out his gnarly fingers. "Soon I won't be able to make repairs." 

Joseph tried his best to reassure him he would be making repairs for many years to come. He wasn't altogether successful in this. Then the discussion forked in a different and unexpected direction. Circuit Dave offered the young man a full-time job. The job wouldn't pay much but Joseph would be able to live with Dev rent-free. The offer was dressed up with a lecture about the need to plan for the future, and in due course put down roots and raise a family. While Joseph recognised the man's good intentions, he also knew that the offer was driven by loneliness and the desire for the one single success in his life, the electronic business, to continue after he was gone. People like Dev like so many men wanted to leave behind a sort of legacy. Not having any family of his own, he was looking for the next best thing. Joseph diplomatically asked for time to think the offer over. 

Altogether it took another hour before Joseph left Circuit Dev's shop. 

xxX 

A tall lanky youth in a smart red chequered shirt and tan coloured trousers was leaning against a lamppost. The adolescent youth was handsome, his striking good looks marred by the occasional small patch of acne on his seventeen year old face. He was holding onto a brown bag the contents of which had left an oily mark around the bottom. As soon as the bag was opened the smell of warm samosas wafted up his nose and triggered the watering of his mouth. Reflexively he looked around him before he commenced eating. Old habits die hard. As a child he often had his food stolen from him. When he dipped his hand into the bag to retrieve the familiar savoury pastry, he noticed from the corner of his eye, a young girl, barely three metres away, staring at him. Even as he took his first few bites the girl in the soiled purple dress continued to stare. It discomforted him but it did not stop him eating. What was one more poor destitute child among thousands on the streets of Delhi? 

"Those samosas must taste good," remarked the girl, now standing even closer. The adolescent youth, ignoring the comment, continued to eat. The girl continued to stare. "You know...I haven't eaten a thing since yesterday." He tried to ignore her. "Did you hear me? - I haven't had a morsel since yesterday noon." 

"Mujhe kya?...Daffah ho, warna...!" (Do I care?...Get lost, or else...!) 

She was totally unfazed by the threat and had moved so that she now stood less than a metre from him. The girl continued to stare as he retrieved his third samosa. "You going to eat all of them?" she asked looking up, directly into the eyes of the skinny youth. 

"Yes, I am going to eat all of them...What's it to you?" Her constant stare was making him decidedly uncomfortable and it manifested itself as irritation. Before he knew it she was pulling on his sleeve with pleading eyes. "Heh, mind the shirt. It's brand new." 

Ignoring his comment she continued to tug on the shirt to get the lad's attention. "Mujhe bhi doh! Kaha nah, mujhe sukht bukh heh?" (Give me some! I told you, I'm starving!) 

"Not my problem." The reply was in English and emphatic. Unfortunately his words were lost on her, as was the power of English usage in Indian society. When she failed to understand or stop pestering him, he made his feelings plain. "Apka rasta pukaro, aur mayra peecha chordo!" (On your way and leave me alone!) 

"But I haven't eaten since yesterday," she complained and her eyes began to well up with tears. "Just give me a little piece...please?" 

The plea was genuine. Having lived the last six years on the streets of the city, he knew life was hard, especially for children. Altogether far too many were living on the streets, begging, doing menial tasks and being exploited by the underworld bosses to run illegal gambling and drug couriering. It was harder for the older girls who were sold by the hour to wealthy and powerful men in the city. He himself had been through some very tough times with small time hoodlums and gangs until he managed to establish himself in his present position of freelance pickpocket. To empathise with a client' was guaranteed to lead to loss of revenue. Early on in his career, he had learned to harden his heart against empathy with others. Nevertheless he found his heart melting a little before this vulnerable girl. God only knew what trouble she could get herself into. Damn! I mustn't let others get to me, he rebuked himself. 

"If I give you a samosa, will you then leave me alone?" 

The girl smiled. She was quite angelic looking despite the bruise on her cheek. He wondered about the story behind the bruise.  "Better than that. I'll help you in your line of work." 

He laughed. "Girl, you don't know who I am or what work I do - and you're going to help me?" He sounded incredulous. "Just take the samosa and leave!" 

"Joseph D'Souza, seventeen years old and makes ends meet by picking pockets. Choron ka yuvraj!" (Prince of thieves!) 

His jaw dropped open. How did she know who he was? Then he laughed out loud at the honorary title she had bestowed upon him. "Choron ka yuvraj nehi - Choron ka raja keho! " (Not prince of thieves - Call me king of thieves!) 

On hearing that, she laughed too. Then she added "I may never have met you before, but I asked around. Other kids on the street know you." 

Joseph was shaking his head in disbelief and surprise. Why would the girl want to know who I am, he wondered. "So why you so interested in knowing who I am?" 

She ignored the question for a moment. "Are you going to give me that samosa or not?" 

Relenting, he handed her the bag. "Here take what's left." 

The girl accepted the gift. She peeked inside the bag. "Oh, there's two left!" She was delighted. 

Before he could finish his next sentence she was munching enthusiastically on the food, muttering sounds of enjoyment. She genuinely had been hungry. "I asked why you so interested in who I am?" 

"Because I can help you," she replied between mouthfuls of samosa. 

Joseph sniffed dismissively at the suggestion. "I don't need help from a little girl." 

"What? Not even from a little girl who knows that the police station is only three streets down from here and there is probably a reward for information leading to your arrest?" She casually crumped up the paper bag into a ball and dropped it on the ground. 

"I don't normally smack little girls, but in your case I might make an exception," threatened the youth, flaring with annoyance. How dare she try to blackmail him?

"You could do that...or you could let me help you make some money..." She was totally incorrigible and remained calm despite the threat. 

"I don't see how you could help...Besides I've been picking pockets for years - what do you know that could possibly be of help?" 

"You work alone and that limits the kinds of things you can do. Let me work with you and together we'll have newer ways of working and making more money." 

Whatever else, she was audacious and mentally agile, he thought. "Talk is cheap," was his reply and challenge to her. 

"You're right...let's make a deal...You help me with the next person I con, and if we make more than Rs500, you and I become a team...what d'you say?" 

Joseph was stunned by the girl's calm bargaining ability and self-confidence. This was no child bluffing. He might just be onto something good here. It was maybe worth a gamble. "OK...I'll take the deal."

"I knew you would. " There was that confidence of hers again. "...By the way, my name is Kiran," she added with a smile. 

"So, Kiran, what do you have in mind to make us good money?" 

"Let me explain how this is going to work..." She then laid out her plan in detail to her co-conspirator. 

Joseph D'Souza the pickpocket was both impressed and pleased with the girl's idea. He had a feeling they could achieve a great deal together. 

xxX

A short bus ride to Delhi station and they were soon ready to target their first victim. The unlucky focus of their attention was a fat well-to-do lady, of ample bosom and rolls of skin bulging out of her expensive sari in all the wrong places. She had a fancy hairdo and was laden with designer label handbag and luggage. The plan was simple enough. Kiran would grab the fancy handbag the woman carried and Joseph would give chase. 

The fat woman fell over when she was pushed from behind by an unseen hand. As she sprawled across her overturned luggage and tried to right herself, Kiran easily snatched up the expensive handbag and made a run for it. The woman managed to sit upright on a piece of luggage and gave vent to her loss. "Chor! Chor koh pakdo! Chor! Police koh ballao!" (Thief! Catch the thief! Thief! Someone call the police!) 

Joseph knelt over the woman, caught her attention and announced, "Don't worry madam, I'll catch her." And in the next second he was off after the retreating figure of Kiran, while a small crowd gathered around the fat woman, sympathising with her plight. The girl had disappeared among the busy travellers in the station and for a moment Joseph wondered whether she had decided to keep the handbag for herself. Had he badly misjudged the girl's character? As he frantically scanned the crowd, an edge of panic creeping into his mind, he suddenly felt a tap on his back. A triumphant Kiran stood smiling up at him. She held the bag up to Joseph. 

"Good work." They walked to a quieter corner before inspecting their catch of the day. "Now let's see what we've got here." Joseph rummaged in the bag and came up with two smartphones. Excellent. He knew where he could of-load those for a worthy sum. He then took out the purse the woman had carried in her bag. As Kiran looked on, Joseph rifled through it. He removed some money to his pocket alongside the two mobile phones, but made sure to leave some cash behind. He was tempted for an instant to also pocket the credit card, but for some reason decided against it. "I'm now going to return the handbag to Miss Fatty and become a hero," he announced. 

Kiran nodded. Then doubt beset her. "Why don't you leave the money with me?" she suggested diplomatically. 

He understood perfectly. Why should she trust him when he could easily disappear with the proceeds? "Good idea. Here, take it...I'll meet you back here in about ten minutes. Don't wander off or I'll never find you in this crowd."

Joseph D'Souza was good as his word. He returned within ten minutes wearing a cheery smile. "So how did it all go?" 

"Smooth...very smooth...Hold out your hand," he suddenly asked. When she eyed him suspiciously, he repeated himself. "Hold out your hand and close your eyes...I promise it's not a trick." 

She relented and did as she was told. When she opened her eyes, she saw and felt the money in the palm of her hand. "What's this?" She was genuinely puzzled. 

"The crazy woman was so pleased she got her designer bag back, and that her credit card hadn't been stolen that she gave me a Rs.50 reward. I thought you deserved it." 

Momentarily she was overwhelmed by his generosity. She was now certain she had chosen the right partner in her coming life of petty crime. Tears filled her eyes and silently rolled down her cheeks. 

"Ansoo kyon, pagli?" (Why the tears, silly?) he wanted to know. 

"Thanks, bhaiya..." was all she would say, choking down the emotion.

"Don't call me that." He was for some reason annoyed at the relationship she had bestowed upon him. 

"Why?" 

"It's a long story..." he said, the sadness palpable, before he lapsed into a silent contemplative mood. 

She found herself wrapping her arms around his middle. It felt natural and appropriate. She needed the bodily comfort as much as he did. Two lost souls tossed together by the winds of destiny. There was nobody else now that her mother had cast her alone into the rat race world. She needed someone like Joseph in her new way of life. "We have lots of time...Why don't you tell me?...I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours..." 

"What good will that do?" 

"At least that way we can both cry together." 

Joseph slowly shook his head in disbelief. She always seemed to know the right thing to say. In his estimation, this girl was wise beyond her years. She seemed able to read people so well. Perhaps that was her special gift. Now adversity had conspired to bring them together. Who was he to change or question destiny? 

Until now, no one had expressed any genuine interest in how he really felt or why he did what he did to eke out an existence. At present that was reason enough to share with someone else his troubled and as till now, unvoiced feelings. They found a place to sit and learned of each other's tragedies and pain. 

Joseph had no recollection of his parents. Something must have happened to render him an orphan at the age of three. He didn't even know if at one time he had any siblings. He had only ever known the orphanage which reared him and educated him. Everyone from outside thought he was lucky to be placed in an orphanage run by the Catholic Church. Many street children would have envied him, but Joseph had suffered in many ways at the orphanage. Compliance with the rules was mandatory and discipline was very strict. There was no sparing of the rod. This was old time religion, dogma and catechisms. 

It was only occasionally that a child from the orphanage was ever adopted and left the establishment. Most children stayed put. Rivalries and competition was rife. By the age of eight he had befriended another slightly younger lad at the orphanage. Some of the other boys picked on Arun and made his life difficult. Arun was a delicate and slightly sickly child who did not prosper in the institutional environment that had a harsh routine and less than loving adults. They had grown very close over the space of couple of years and Arun had taken to calling Joseph his older brother, a role the older boy had relished at the time. He would make up stories to entertain him, played games together and Joseph even passed him some of his food from his meagre plate. 

There was an influenza outbreak at the orphanage and many children suffered the fever, aches and tightness of chest but they came through it. When Arun contracted the virulent strain of influenza, everyone at the orphanage thought that like most people he would weather the infection. Joseph remembered his concerns on seeing his brother' stretchered out of the building into the ambulance. By the time the officials at the orphanage took him to hospital, the boy was in a serious condition. Joseph never saw Arun return. Joseph fixated on the idea that somehow it was his fault. That's why the sick boy never came back. All the children at the orphanage were told that Arun had died of a serious chest infection, due to his weak immune system. Arun had been the first person close to Joseph who had died and he had great difficulty coming to terms with the passing of his friend and brother'. Within a month or two, everyone had forgotten Arun and moved on - except Joseph, who felt he had let down the closest person to him. 

However that had been the least of Joseph's sorrows. He did not go into specifics and even if he had, he doubted she would have fully understood. From the age of ten, there was the regular pain, humiliation and degradation of sexual abuse by men of the church. The exploitation was by authority figures and role models, people Joseph was supposed to look up to. That had ignited and then nurtured his abiding hatred of the Church and its clergy. He endured his secret shame for a year before he summoned up the courage to run away. Then for many months he had played hide and seek with the authorities that were searching for him while managing to survive on the mean streets without skills or support. 

Of course there were matters he could not share with her - deeply personal and unresolved matters. He himself had side-steeped the question of his sexual feelings. Joseph desperately wanted to affirm to the world he was not gay. He did not want to be labelled as effeminate and an outcast. Life was hard enough without that additional burden. While he told himself he was a real man, he could not come to terms with what he had been forced to do at the orphanage, and what had been done to him while there. Surely those sexual acts mean he was gay? The idea tormented him and the confusion clung to him like a stench. 

Kiran reached up and with her fingers wiped away the tears rolling down Joseph's cheeks. "Aaj se, tu mere bade bhaiya ho," (From today, you're my older brother,) she confirmed again and hugged his pain away, at least momentarily. 

Joseph gave a forced laugh. "A little girl. I'm crying, like a little girl." 

"And what's wrong with being a girl?" she challenged in jest. 

"Nothing, Choti, Nothing at all..." Kiran liked the sound of Choti' and what it signified. He had come to accept their relationship. "Now, Choti how did you end up with me?" 

She told him everything. He comforted her like an older brother, putting his arm around her shoulders, empathising with her forced estrangement from her mother. He in turn now wiped away her tears. "Choti, as soon as I've sold the smartphones, we'll find a way to get the money to your mother...Don't worry, we'll do it in a way that your father will never know...I promise." 

She was moved by his generous gesture and hugged him tight. "Thanks, bhaiya. You're the best!" 

"Now, what d'you say we get something to eat? It's already getting dark, and we'll have to pick a spot where we can safely lay our heads tonight. There's always squabbling about the best spots when you have to sleep on the footpath." Even in the last three days she had learned the truth of that observation the hard way. 

"OK, but I want us to stop at the nearest mandir first." 

"If you must." He was grudging in acceptance. 

 "I want to pray for my mother and also say my thanks to God." 

"Fine...I'll wait outside." 

"You can come inside, bhaiya. All faiths are allowed. Mother always said there is only one Eshwar although different religions know him by different names." 

"God and I have not been on speaking terms for several years now," he explained, the bitterness clear in his voice. 

She decided to side-step the matter rather than inquire further. No doubt he would tell her in his own good time. "I understand...Shall we go?" 

"Yes." He stood up, adding "Afterwards, there's are two seat waiting for us at Mumtaz Dhabba." Joseph started walking. 

"Where's that?" she asked following behind him. 

"Nearby. Wait till you taste Ismail Uncle's Kadhi Chicken." 

"I've only ever eaten vegetarian food." 

"Don't worry he makes good veg dishes too." Suddenly he gave a chuckle. 

"What's up?" 

"After the mandir...phet ka pooja," (After the temple, time to worship the stomach) he joked trying to lighten the mood. 

"You'll never be a comedian," she remarked. 

"What makes you sure?" 

"Comedians need brains. You're clearly the beauty, and I'm the one with the brains in this partnership!" 

Her faux stern comment made him laugh. "You think so?" 

"Oh, I'm certain." She began to laugh too. 

xxX

Throughout the 1800s, the British military established and maintained brothels for its troops to use all across India. These were largely for the enlisted soldiers who were forbidden to marry any of the local women. The places set up by the British for the use of colonial troops were euphemistically called comfort zones. The girls, many in their early teens from poor, rural Indian families, were recruited and paid directly by the military, which also set their tariffs. Since those days nothing much had changed in the transactions conducted except that the buildings were perhaps newer, though no less dilapidated and it was common now for virgins to be auctioned to the highest bidder. There were no longer any lock hospitals' where the women were kept locked up if they contracted sexually transmitted diseases, until they were either cured or died. Only now, in addition, HIV and its devastating consequences had to be reckoned with. Men hypocritically still sought comfort in the arms of girls and young women while publicly decrying such facilities. The political classes and VIPs in the capital city had their own somewhat classier establishments but the deeds conducted were no different than anywhere else and the young women had been forced into the trade by the same dehumanising processes.   

Kusam's story was all too familiar. She had been only 11 years old when her family was persuaded by a neighbour to send her to the city of Delhi hundreds of miles away from her poverty-stricken village. They promised Kusam a well-paid job as a housemaid to a wealthy household so she could help feed her family. Little did anyone suspect that she would end up at one of capital's largest red light districts to become a prostitute. Trafficked by her dishonest neighbour, she was unceremoniously dumped at a brothel where she was raped by a customer. Kusam had spent the next three months in hospital. Like so many of the new girls, they had raped her to break her will. Obedience was essential in this business of the flesh.   

Kusam came to know many others in her trade. Lata, for example, was tricked and trafficked by her own boyfriend at the age of 16. She had been drugged and taken to Delhi from a neighbouring state. There were numerous other similar stories of poverty, deception and cruelty, all to service the needs of poor and rich men alike. 

Padma's penniless father had first resorted to begging, then naively took out a loan that he couldn't repay. The loan shark's goondas beat up her parents and threatened to kill them unless they sold Padma, their youngest child, to a female trafficker in their gang. In the beginning Padma was a slave in the woman's house. At the time she was nine years old. About a year afterwards, she was handed over to a gang which made her start to put on make-up. One day she was ordered to take off her clothes. Padma was attacked and raped. When that had been done, the woman who had sold her came to speak to her, saying, It's no sin, girl; it's just what we do'. Padma was threatened so many times that she decided to accept what they wanted her to do in order to make them money. 

It was not as if the police didn't do their bit in fighting organised prostitution. Any day of the week, around Connaught Circus and other districts like it, citizen could witness individual police officers harassing and slapping around some street-walkers and yet, most business transaction were not conducted on the streets but behind the closed doors of well-known established venues. While the police raided brothels quite regularly, on most occasions, the pimps and the traffickers escaped arrest because of money changing hands. The money exchanged supplemented the meagre income of the local police and ensured that the lucrative flesh trade continued to supply the needs of the men in the city. 

Kusam had been one of the lucky girls, who several years later, with the help of an NGO project, was rescued and reunited with her family. Leaving their hell-hole existence was no easy matter for many girls because of the common fear of family rejection or the simple fact that often their own families had been responsible for selling them in the first instance. For a while Kusam had lived in a rehabilitation home run by a charitable organisation. When she left she managed to secure herself an education and a minimum of qualifications by dint of determination and assistance from her well-wishers. All the while she also learned what she could about the sex trade and became politicised. Before long she decided to play her part in rescuing others trafficked into prostitution. It had become her mission and obsession. All too aware that many of the girls even when rescued, couldn't return to their families because of the stigma, with official help, she had set up a half-way house not dissimilar to one that had provided her with a safe haven where they could learn skills and regrow their confidence. The girls at the half-way house fondly called her Masima (aunt). 

Joseph had met Masima two years previously when from a dimly-lit alley a teenage pimp had emerged to tout schoolgirls held prisoner inside the small brothel behind him. "I can get you young girls," the teenager had boasted. "Some of them have only been used four or five times - honest." When Joseph had ignored the offer, the lad resorted to a sales pitch with practised ease. "Feisty or passive, you can have whatever kind you fancy. Surely a virile young man like yourself has needs that require attending to regularly." With the last statement the pimp mimed some pelvic thrusts so there could be no mistaking what he meant. 

"Not interested," said Joseph emphatically. 

"Only a eunuch's not interested," was the acid comment. "Come on, we're both men here, and we know men need it regularly otherwise they go a little crazy. A horny lad like you needs to see some action." 

At that moment, Masima had been in the rubbish-strewn lane, where homeless children slept rough often beside junkies and within an arm's length of the brothel. Having heard the exchange between the two young men, Masima had intervened with a colourful string of expletives that both stunned and shamed the young pimp. The hapless teenager had slinked off knowing that discretion was more important than valour in his line of work. 

That left only the woman and Joseph. He looked closely at Masima, a confident thirty five year old woman of medium stature, short hair and dressed in a simple but stylish shalwar kameez of warm browns and gold. Her appearance and demeanour to Joseph was incongruous with the gutter talk' that had emanated from her mouth. He didn't know what to say, but she certainly did. Masima had lectured him and he was obliged to listen. However, since that day, not only had he learned more about her, he had also come to respect her. Occasionally he called upon her for advice at the half-way house she managed. In return, he provided Masima with intelligence important to her line of work and the occasional electronic gadget. 

xxX

"Where we going?" Kiran wanted to know, occasionally scratching her scalp and legs. She was tired from sleeping rough and she was convinced she had been bitten by insects during the night. 

"Choti, I need to go see Circuit Dev this morning to off-load the smartphones. When I get back with the money we'll decide our next move." 

"You not taking me with you?" 

"No. A friend is going to look after you while I'm away." 

"I don't need looking after!" Kiran insisted. "I've managed on my own so far." 

"Believe me, Choti...there's dangerous and terrible things happening out here on the streets that you don't know about." 

"Doesn't matter. I can handle myself," she asserted. 

"Choti, zid matt karo. (Don't be stubborn, Little One.) There are gangs out there that kidnap girls even younger than you and sell them off...You have no idea of the cruelties they inflict on them..." 

"Stop trying to scare me, bhaiya." 

"You should be scared, pagli. I know I am. That's why I'm taking you to someone who'll look after you for an hour or so." He took his brotherly responsibilities seriously and was all too aware of her vulnerability as a twelve year old newcomer to life on the streets. 

"And who is it that's going to look after me?" 

"A very nice woman called Masima who runs a sort of shelter for girls." 

"I don't wanted to be left with some stranger. Are you sure I can't go with you?" 

"Yes. Besides you'd be bored while Circuit Dev and I conduct business and catch up on what's been happening." It wasn't entirely the truth but would do for the moment. He was still formulating how he would broach with Masima the subject of Kiran's daily welfare before he could share the subject with Kiran herself. 

"So you're friends with this Circuit Dev?" 

"Sort of...we go way back." A fleeting smile flashed across Joseph's face at some old memories of that relationship.   

"You just don't want me with you." There was hurt and disappointment in her tone. 

"You know it's nothing like that, Choti. It's because I have your best interests at heart...honest!" 

"Whatever you say, bhaiya," was her contrite comment, as she scratched away at the bite marks on her legs. 

He noticed her scratching. "It was all that rich food at Mumtaz's last night that made your blood irresistible to the bugs." He was laughing when he said it. 

Kiran was far from amused by his comment. "I don't care what caused it, bhaiya...I just wish it would stop itching," complained the irritable and tired girl. 

"I'm sure Masima will attend to it." 

"Then we had better get to her soon as possible." 

xxX 

It was a full five minutes of waiting after ringing the bell before Joseph and Kiran saw someone coming to answer the door at the half-way house. The woman was 55 years old and the lines on her nut brown weathered face showed all the hardships she had endured. She walked slightly awkwardly due to painful knees, but her scowl was an expression adopted to scare away time-wasters that came to the front door. Her sari was neatly tied, clean and a shade of magnolia. Her forehead carried a large tilak. The twenty girls and young women in the shelter called her Dadima (Granny). She was the matriarch of the place although ostensibly Kusam was in charge. 

"Yes?" she demanded, standing guardian over the building.

"I've come to speak to Masima." Kiran fidgeted nervously but Joseph was not so easily put off having heard from Masima of the dragon woman's reputation. 

"What's it about?" 

Kiran by now was clutching Joseph's trouser leg, disquieted by the woman's fearsome manner. "Bhaiya I don't want to go in there." 

The child was ignored. "I've come to check if she's happy with the TV I brought her a few weeks ago." Joseph had provided the half-way house with some reconditioned electrical goods at knock-down prices which had come via Circuit Dev. 

"Oh, the TV," she said gleefully, her hard manner suddenly softening. "The picture is so clear and the colours are just wonderful!" The two were no longer considered enemies. She opened the door wider to let the young people enter. "Come in, come in. I'll let Masima know you're here. She's just down the corridor in her office." 

She then turned her gaze directly at Kiran who shrank back a little from the unwanted attention. "And who's this you have with you?" she said with surprising gentleness as she leaned over and cupped Kiran's face in her two hands for closer examination. 

"She's Kiran. I'm looking after her." 

"Not well enough it seems...Look at her. Buried under all that dirt there's a very pretty face." The woman affectionately pinched Kiran's cheeks and spoke directly to the child. "Even though you are sweet, child, you need a bath," she stated bluntly, wrinkling her nose. 

As she straightened up to look at Joseph, Kiran was debating with herself whether or not the woman was really a witch in disguise. Kiran's mother had told her tales of witches. 

"Follow me," Dadima told the visitors. 

She turned, looked over her shoulder momentarily to indicate they shouldn't dilly dally but follow, then walked on ahead. 

When they were shown into the room, Masima was busy at her desk working on a laptop computer. She stopped what she was doing and gave the visitors her undivided attention. 

"Joseph, what brings you here?" 

He gave a disarming smile. "I thought I'd check whether the TV was working out OK." 

"Jhoot Na Bhol," (Don't lie,) she said very matter of fact, seeing through his ploy. He had always found his charm just didn't work on her. She could be hard and unforgiving at times. 

"Masima, you're right - it isn't about the TV." 

"It's about this infernal itch of mine!" announced Kiran in the momentary silence that followed. 

Masima looked directly at Joseph. "And who is this you've brought with you?" 

"She's Kiran...I'm sort of looking after her." For some reason he sounded almost apologetic. 

"Come here, child," she said waving Kiran towards her. A little warily the girl approached. "Let me look at you." 

Kiran stood quietly as she was given the once over look. "Where does it itch?" 

Kiran proceeded to show the woman the tiny bite marks on her legs. "And my head itches too." 

After examining the child's head, the woman said, "You, child, need a bath and your head de-loused." 

"Will that stop the itching?" Kiran was more interested in knowing. 

"I think we have some ointment to stop that - but first you need a bath. I'll call Dadima to take care of it." 

"No, not Dadima!" insisted Kiran who was still a little intimidated by the old woman. 

"It's OK, beti. Dadima's bark is worse than her bite. She looks after all the girls I have here. She also cooks all the meals. She cooks the best food I ever tasted."  

Kiran shook her head in refusal. "OK, may be one of the young women will get you tidied up. Perhaps we can find something a little cleaner to wear too. Your outfit is filthy." 

"Will there be something to eat afterwards?...I'm really hungry," was all the girl said. 

As soon as Kiran left the office, Masima made her displeasure clear. "What d'you think you're doing, Joseph? A girl of her age shouldn't be hanging about with you. Do you even know who she is?" 

A flustered Joseph could only come up with "I was just trying to help her out...She's been thrown out by her parents." 

"And you think you can provide her with a home? Look at the state of her today - she was hungry and dirty." 

"Yes but -" 

"Most nights you sleep in abandoned dangerous buildings or on the streets and barely make ends meet. How are you going to look after the child? What d'you know about bringing up a little girl when you yourself aren't even fully grown?" 

Hurt by the criticism, Joseph became angry. "Well, I couldn't just abandon her. She latched on to me and I thought she'd be better off with me than ending up in a brothel."

A little more conciliatory, Masima added "OK Joseph you did a noble thing, but you must have realised this can't be a permanent arrangement. You should've come to see me sooner." 

"So, you will try to help her then?" 

"I'll do what I can - no promises. Besides, I can't work miracles." 

Joseph nodded in acknowledgement. 

"You do realise don't you that your friendship with her is going to be a short one." 

For some reason Joseph couldn't fathom, that statement hurt more than he imagined. 

"Look... leave her with me for a few days. I'll make a few calls, talk to a few people and see what kinds of things are possible." 

The discussion did not remain confined to Kiran. It ranged over what plans Joseph had for himself. Did he intend to continue his life of petty crime with its hand-to-mouth existence? Did he intend someday to marry? If he did what kind of life would he be offering his bride to be? With Masima this discussion was a well-trodden path whenever she spoke at length with Joseph. Kiran's presence had only given Masima an excuse to pick that bone again. 

By the time Joseph left the half-way house his head was reeling with thoughts. Life on the footpaths of Delhi had required him to grow up fast, become meaner than he actually wanted to be and resort to ways that he knew to be wrong. But surely it wasn't a crime to find ways of filling his belly most days?  In his own mind he called it a matter of survival. When he tried imagining himself ten years in the future, he just couldn't. He was accustomed to living day to day. Would he still be riding the highs and lows of his current pickpocketing life? What else was there? His parents were dead and God had abandoned him. What possible prospects could there be for the likes of him who was barely literate when thousands of well qualified graduates couldn't secure a job? Damn Masima for bringing up these difficult and unpalatable subjects - matters he had assiduously ignored for the last five years. 

As for the matter of marriage, it was not a question he could answer until he first wrestled the question of the exact nature of his sexual feelings. But Masima didn't know about his inner turmoil and confusion regarding his sexuality.  If her assumptions about him were correct, her maternalism in raising the matter of what kind of life he could offer his intended bride was probably appropriate. No bride's parents would ever agree a proposal unless they felt they were handing over their daughter to a reliable pair of hands. A pickpocket who every day risked arrest and could not guarantee a steady income would never be considered a reliable pair of hands. How would he even meet his share of the cost of any marriage? Would he not wish his future children a better life than his own?

Joseph's head hurt thinking about it all. Perhaps this was too much of a burden for such young shoulders. However, by the time his bus reached his dropping off point, Circuit Dev's offer of the poorly paid job looked more promising than it had a few days earlier. At least I'd have a permanent roof over my head, he told himself. The accommodation was better than any derelict building or the footpath, he continued to debate inside his head. The shopkeeper clearly cared for him, and would treat him as a surrogate son, if Joseph let him. He found himself admitting there might be merit in the offer. And just as he was coming to terms with the idea, a part of him asked: what will become of Kiran? Would he leave her to Masima to deal with, or would he defy the woman and keep the girl with him? That question stumped him altogether, as he opened the door and entered the electronics shop to a warm greeting. 

"Joseph, my boy! Back so soon?" said Circuit Dev with a wide grin, looking up from the disassembled components of some machine on the counter. "Your line of work seems to be doing well these days, young man!" Screwdriver in hand, he waved the young man towards a seat. "Come over here and show me what you got for me this time.  

(The End)

(There will be another Footpath Tale posted soon. While the last story in the trilogy is also set in the world of Footpath Tales, it is based on totally new characters and deals with a somewhat different theme.)

 *******************************************************************************************************************

Footpath Tales is a trilogy of short stories set in the same world of New Delhi. The Footpath tales follow the trials and tribulations of individuals that live on the margins of society. It examines the manner in which the various characters in the three stories face adversity without losing hope and how despite everything the human spirit triumphs. 

The first story in the trilogy (Cast Upon The Waters) is posted today and in about one week's time I will post the second part of the trilogy (Destiny's Flotsam) which follows the fate of the child Kiran introduced in the first part of the trilogy. 

In about 2 weeks' time I will post the last part of the trilogy (Mahaan) which is set in the same city but deals with other characters living on the margins of society. This story is slightly different from the other two parts of the trilogy and features new characters and a new theme.

I hope readers will find these stories of interest. Of course constructive criticism is welcome, should you wish to comment.

FOOTPATH TALES 1: Cast Upon The Waters

The sun was fierce in an azure sky. The footpath was hot enough to be uncomfortable against her bare and calloused feet. Shielding her eyes with her right hand, she squinted up at the expanse of blue as if to say: why does it have to be so hot? It did not help that she was hungry, lost and alone in a busy congested district of Delhi. She licked her parched, cracked lips as she blinked against the bright light of noon. The dreadful cacophony of traffic and car horns could not distract Kiran from the fact that she had not eaten since the day before yesterday, except for a few edible scraps she had salvaged from a bin outside a restaurant. The aromas of street food being prepared by the small stall keepers teased and tormented her. It was coming to the time when office workers and occasional daring tourists would flock to eat their midday meals and snacks. She however, would not be one of them since she did not have any money, not even a rupee to her name. As she stood contemplating her next move, she could not help but remember those frugal but delicious home cooked meals - and of course her indomitable mother who cooked them.

Standing at the busy intersection in a faded, soiled purple dress that barely reached her grubby and scuffed knees, Kiran rubbed the painful bruise on her left cheek. A gift from her alcoholic father, she recalled. She hated her father with all the venom a twelve year old could muster. Kiran remembered all the beatings her mother had suffered over the years as she tried to keep their household running despite life's vicissitudes. Her mother's existence was difficult enough without having to contend with an unemployed drunkard of a husband. What little money her mother made from several jobs of cleaning and washing clothes or looking after young children for middle class families, was often stolen by her useless father. If he didn't steal the money, with threats he wheedled it out of her mother to pay for his heavy duty drinking. That was why on numerous occasions there was insufficient to eat. Too many times Kiran had watched her mother go hungry rather than deprive her only child of a thrifty meal. During the night Kiran would hear her father's return with its accompanying shouting, arguing and swearing. Often he would berate his wife for not having cooked a meal for him. Most nights Kiran was too frightened even to shed tears despite her despair. When the beatings began, she would get off her cot and often try to intervene despite her small stature. In the process of helping her mother Kiran frequently caught a few blows. Most days her immature, malnourished body bore the bruises without complaint. She had learned to retreat to a safe place in her mind, where no one or nothing could hurt her. She had hardened her heart against emotional injury and disappointment. Kiran was a girl with no dreams or ambitions except to survive another day. The only thing she was certain of was that her mother loved her. That gave her the determination to live. 

In the end it was her mother's concern for her safety and well-being that had driven Kiran from her home. In the drunken row between her father and mother, she had intervened as was the custom lately. Only on this occasion her father had a tight grip on her mother's throat, and before Kiran could even take stock of the situation, she found herself with a kitchen knife in her hand. Her father continued to curse and threaten her mother who struggled in vain to free herself from the suffocating grasp. 

"Leave her alone!" 

"Or what?" sneered her father in contempt. 

"I'll cut you," she stated menacingly. "I swear I'll cut you!" 

"Threatening your father are you, you upstart! " 

The father loosened his grip on his wife's throat so that he could deal with the irritant. He then swung his arm to smack the child back into place. Kiran ducked and slashed at the retreating hand with the knife. Her father yelped in pain and let go of his wife to ready himself against any new attack. 

"You bitch! You cut me!" His expression was one of shock, alarm and anger. "Now I'm going to have to teach you the same lesson as your worthless mother." 

As he attempted to reach out and grab her, Kiran easily evaded him and lashed out with the blade and again slashed her father. The blood flow was copious this time. The wound was deeper and stung painfully. He cursed vociferously directing his anger at the child. 

"You nasty b******! Good for nothing! Wait till I get my hands on you. I'll tear you to pieces!" 

Even as he was swearing and swaying towards the girl, the mother was pulling him back. "You're bleeding badly...let me fix it," she pleaded, showing concern for her husband despite everything that had happened. 

"Not till I deal with that useless s*** of a daughter you've raised." 

He staggered in Kiran's direction. 

"Deal with her later, or you'll bleed to death," his wife pointed out. 

While he dripped blood and pondered the situation, his wife looked over at her daughter and subtly signalled her to get out of sight and harm's way. Kiran shook her head slightly at her mother's signal and stood her ground. By now Kiran's mother had grasped the wounded arm and was pressing firmly against the more serious wound with a fold of her faded sari. Using her teeth and free hand, she tore a long strip from the sari and began methodically to tourniquet the wound. 

"I'll get a piece of cloth and tie it round the wound," she explained soothingly. 

The father had fallen silent but he continued to glare at the object of his hatred - the curse from God he had to bear. 

"Once I've beaten you black and blue, I'm going to hand you over to the police," he told his daughter menacingly. "You can rot in prison." 

Kiran's mother leapt to the youngster's defence. "You can't! She's only a child!" 

"The bitch cut me - her father, no less! You understand? She tried to kill me - the man who gave her life! She deserves worse than prison for what she's done. At least then there'll be one less burden for me to carry." 

Even if he had not been drunk when he said it, the irony of the statement would still have been lost on him. 

Under the watchful eye of the father, Kiran's mother signalled to her to come and help, in the hope of keeping the child out of harm's way. 

When both their backs were towards the man, Kiran's mother whispered, "Run, beti, run!" Kiran didn't understand. "If you don't leave right now, he's certain to kill you!" 

"Where will I go, Maa?" 

"Anywhere. Somewhere far from here. Somewhere he can't find you." 

There was urgency and deep concern in her mother's tone, but Kiran was not ready to leave. 

"But what about you, Maa?" 

"Don't fret about me, child. I can handle him. I've been doing that for years. But for your own safety, you have to leave and leave right now!" 

A mother could sacrifice her own heart to save her child. She had faith in her daughter's ability to face the world on her own, and for the past five or so years, she had been teaching her as best she could. Between her teaching and God's benevolence, she was convinced that Kiran could survive on her own. 

The father was becoming suspicious about the delay in finding a makeshift bandage for the wound. "What are you two gabbing about? You were supposed to treat my injury," he complained as he staggered towards a cot to sit down before he fell over faint. 

"I will when I find a suitable bit of cloth," Kiran's mother replied, stalling for more time. Looking her daughter in the eye, she said, "Make a run for it. And don't look back." 

"When should I come back, Maa?" the child wanted to know. 

"Never, beti. He'll surely kill you if you do. It's best you never come back." 

"But -" 

"Just go, child! God will keep you safe." 

She then half turned towards her husband so that he could hear. "Get out of my way, child!" She pretended to remonstrate with her daughter for the sake of the father and his wounded pride. "You're no help at all! Worse than useless, you are! Just get out of my sight! Be off with you!" 

At that point Kiran had left, abandoning everything that was familiar and the only person that loved and cared for her. Two days of wandering the streets had brought her here, far from the slums that were her familiar domain. In this new place she had encountered only hostility even from the others who were dispossessed.  

The smell of frying oil jerked her out of her brief reverie. She decided that she was going to eat today, whatever it took. The only question was how. When on numerous occasions her mother had told her she was a clever girl, her mother had not been wrong in recognising her sharpness of mind, her ability to learn quickly and an a natural ability to solve problems. If she deployed her talents carefully, she was certain she would not be hungry for much longer. 

Kiran was literate in Hindi despite having abandoned school at the age of seven due to family circumstances. What she could read was down to the efforts of her mother, who had been determined that her child should master the skill, even if she received no other education. However, the written sign on the smart restaurant up ahead, with golden arches near its entrance, was in a different language. If her language skills had extended to English, or if her family had possessed a television, she would have recognised McDonald's. What she did notice was that a very tall, smartly uniformed man in his early thirties stood guard outside the door of the fast food establishment. She would need to navigate past him to enter and try her luck inside. Perhaps she could salvage some left-overs to assuage her constantly nagging hunger. However to succeed she would need a plan and a great deal of daring. 

Kiran watched carefully as people entered and exited the restaurant, taking note of their demeanour. It did not take long before she spotted her unwitting accomplice coming out of the establishment. Kiran stepped forward and unhesitatingly headed for the entrance knowing full well that the guard would stop her. 

"Heh, you can't go in there!" came the anticipated response. 

"And why not?" demanded the annoyed child. 

"Well...look at the state of you. I bet you don't even have the money to buy anything." 

"Yes, I do!" insisted Kiran, surreptitiously casting a glance at the smartly dressed young woman who was outside the entrance, rummaging in her handbag. 

"Go on, get lost!" 

The guard did not make allowance for the determination of the child and the imperatives of hunger. "I'm going in and you're not going to stop me." 

When the guard grasped Kiran by the shoulder and tried to push her away, she protested. "Don't you dare hit me, you brute, or I'll call the police!" 

She said it loud enough for all nearby to hear and quickly she had an interested audience for her drama - not least the young woman by the entrance, rummaging in her handbag. 

"Heh, leave that girl alone!" 

"Madam the girl is not permitted in the restaurant," explained the uniformed young man. 

"Why not?" the young woman demanded to know. 

The man was somewhat embarrassed and tried to hide it. "Madam lots of youngsters come around here annoying the customers, begging for money and that puts off potential customers." 

Kiran looked up at the woman and feigned a tone of indignation. "Auntie," she said, now grabbing a hold of the woman's arm, "he thinks I'm not good enough to eat here just because my clothes are a bit dirty." 

"Is that right?" the woman asked the man, becoming increasingly annoyed by the scene she was witnessing. 

"Madam, please try to understand," insisted the guard, "it's not like that exactly..." 

"Go on, tell us: exactly what is it like then?" added Kiran, deliberately stoking the confrontation. The young woman had to be led to the tipping point or the ploy Kiran had devised would fail. 

"Well the fact is, madam, like all the other trouble-makers who come around here, she has no money to buy anything in the restaurant." 

Kiran looked directly the woman. "Auntie did you hear that? He's calling me a trouble-maker and he saw me for the first time only minutes ago! You know, Auntie, he didn't even ask if I had any money," the girl complained. She gave a loud sniff as if she was about to start crying. "I'm hungry and I wanted something to eat. What's wrong with that?" 

The girl threw her arms around the woman and began sobbing. The young woman was now incensed and directed her anger at the young man. 

"You're heartless!" she announced, looking daggers at the man who squirmed in discomfort at the accusation. "Can't you see how you've upset the child by making unfounded allegations?" 

She then turned to Kiran and said reassuringly, "Don't worry, beti, you'll eat in the restaurant."

The guard was insistent. "Madam, she's not permitted to enter. It's against the rules!" 

The man put out his arm in a gesture of barring their route. 

"We'll see about that when I complain to your manager." Since the man did not change his stance or lower his arm, the young woman looked him straight in the eyes. "I only need to make one phone call and the media will descend on this place like vultures and headquarters will not like the consequences for their franchise." 

That made the man blink and gulp with fear. Slowly he lowered his hand, as if embarrassed. 

Yet meekly he still managed to say, "Madam, there's no need to make a bad situation worse. I'm sure if you go in and speak with the manager, he'll explain and make you understand the situation." 

"Rest assured, your manager will be explaining it all to both me and the girl". There was no mistaking the hostility in her voice. 

Turning to the girl, she said "Come with me, beti. We'll get this sorted out."  

Together they headed for the entrance. 

The hapless guard followed behind them, concerned about how all this would play out, especially if it would impact his job. 

Just as they reached the door, the woman leaned down and spoke to the girl. "What's your name, child?" 

"My name's Kiran, Auntie." At that point the girl sounded angelic. 

The brief hesitation at the front entrance gave the guard the opportunity to step ahead and open the door for them. Courtesy to customers could only help, the young man thought to himself. As the two of them entered, he bowed slightly and gave a toothy smile. The woman was unimpressed. 

"Tell your manager I wish to speak to him." 

"Yes, madam." 

He scurried off to locate the manager while Kiran and her champion sat down and waited. Kiran's eyes were as wide as saucers as took in the scene before her. The smell of food was mouth-watering, and people were stuffing their faces with all manner of delights, laughing, talking and visibly enjoying themselves. This was a whole new world that she never knew existed. It was a far cry from what happened in her impoverished slum district. 

In a few minutes a shame-faced looking young guard trailed behind an older, clean cut looking man with a managerial swagger about him arrived at Kiran's table. Quickly the guard was dismissed and returned to attending to his duties outside. 

The manager attempted to explain the informal policy of the restaurant, but his words fell upon deaf ears. The woman was indignant and made her feelings about the matter very clear. Even the manager's attempt to use the "we'll make an exception on this occasion" was ineffective. With the threat of the matter being relayed to the media, the manager reluctantly agreed to re-examine the policy of who could or could not access McDonalds. Having lost that round the manager then asked the woman and child to follow him to the serving counter. The manager, under the scrutiny of the junior staff, decided to personally serve Kiran her food. 

On advice from the young woman, a paneer wrap was packed along with a chocolate milkshake for Kiran. When the manager began to ring up the cost on the till, panic seized the girl's brain. She had no money to pay and now her scheme was about to be unravel. Thinking quickly on her feet, Kiran turned to her saviour. 

"Auntie don't you think I should be getting it free, considering all the embarrassment and trouble they've put me through?" 

The manager's face might have fallen on hearing this, but the woman was in total agreement with the child. "That's a very valid point, Kiran." 

She turned to the manager. "Well don't you think she should be compensated and I was also put to a great deal of inconvenience in ensuring fairness by your company? I think a gesture of goodwill would be in order given the situation." The tone suggested that she was not in the mood to argue the point. 

"Yes, madam, McDonalds, as a gesture of goodwill will let the girl have her meal for free." 

There were smiles of satisfaction from Kiran and the young woman. As they walked away from the counter, the woman turned to Kiran and said, "Kiran beti, I have to get back to the office. You can stay and have your food, or if you prefer, eat it outside. If you stay you can use the toilets here to wash and tidy yourself up before you go home. Look after yourself...'Bye." 

"'Bye, Auntie. And thanks for everything." Kiran gave the young woman the biggest smile she could manage.

She was genuinely grateful for the assistance the woman had rendered. As Kiran watched the helpful stranger depart, she decided she was going to stay inside the restaurant and enjoy a comfortable seat and the coolness inside.

As she devoured her food, she thought of her destitute mother's daily struggles to put food on the table. As much as she missed her and longed for her comforting embrace, Kiran new that her mother had acted in her child's best interests. Life was going to be a struggle for someone as young as Kiran, but the girl had a talent for deception and a native intelligence that would stand her in good stead. As she polished off her meal in a sparklingly clean and air conditioned space, Kiran decided she was going to be successful - whatever it took. Then she would eat regularly at McDonalds and even better places. There would be no stopping her now.

XXX