Children of the Damned

Summer, 2008

I knew he was special since the first time I ever saw him on that bright sunny day. He was sitting in the stairs near the mess hall, engrossed in what appeared to be a small book or a magazine. He held it as if it were a very precious piece of some treasure. He would look into it, grin and then look back. 


He appeared to be around 5 or 6 year old. Fair, brown hair and small eyes, wearing half pants and a shirt, hair combed neatly; he looked indifferent from rest of the kids living at the shelter home. As I walked towards the main office and walked past him, my eyes stayed glued to the boy. I felt walking up to him and taking a peek into his little book and talk to him. But I guess like all other “busy at the moment” people I left it as mere thought and walked into the office thinking I had ample time to catch up with the kids later.


I started working with Deepalaya, an NGO for underprivileged kids, temporarily as a part of volunteer program, but I guess the place, the people and the kids became an invincible part of me to leave them any sooner. Not only that, these kids made me felt special in a way unlike anybody else did.


I was in II semester of my graduation and worked part time in a research firm. As it was a UK based firm, it gave me liberty to attend the college during the day and go for work at 8 in the evening. Since both my parents were working and a sister who always had tuitions to attend till late, to help her crack boards exams, I didn't have much of a family time unless it was weekend. The spare time left after the classes were spent hanging out with friends and roaming on the streets of Delhi.


It was one of those days when I was sitting in the canteen feasting on pav bhaji when I received a call from Shenaz, the Child Rights lady at the NGO asking if I could accompany her as she needed help, citing that everyone else was busy with the coming charity event. I shared a special rapport with Shenaz and even being twice my age, she was pally with me. I guess since she had no kids or maybe because she was the only one who thought that I had a sense of humor. And obviously I loved her company too as she would take me along for conferences and special events across the city in her Honda car. 


She asked me to hurry up as we had to go to the hospital and that there had been a police case. I met her halfway as we rushed to a government hospital that NGO was partners with.


Hospital is the only freaking place on Earth that makes me feel really weak and mortal. I mean it didn't matter how much care you take of your body, you might still end up here because of someone else’s fault, I thought as I saw an accident victim being bought in. I just stood there quietly breathing on that peculiar weird hospital smell as Shenaz spoke to the officials. From all the conversations happening simultaneously all I could figure out was that someone was hurt real bad and police was involved. I mean come on, how easy is it for your tympanic membranes to function when 5 people are talking gibberish and your sensory system is exposed to the sudden blast of antiseptic, medicines, plaster, patients, and all other “hospital smelling stuff”.


After a while, Shenaz asked me to go and see the patient in ICU while she handled legal issues. With the pictures of blood splashed and scary images of people lying in ICU (courtesy ER, Scrubs and Trauma) flashing across my mind I made my way to the Intensive care. I stood outside the room for minutes wondering what’s waiting for me inside. (I do get melodramatic at times)


But, sometimes I guess the fear of unknown in itself the most horrifying feeling. I entered the room in anticipation as I saw a tiny frame lying on the bed with bandages all over reminding me one of those “mummies” movies. I moved closer and I saw the motionless frame looking up at the ceiling. Frightened, that he might be dead I rushed to check his pulse but to my surprise those small eyes seemed familiar. I don't know what serious situations make out of me, but I try really hard to fend the awkwardness and that’s the time I start sounding nonsense. Usually in moments like these I prefer to keep quiet, but I felt (because of all the science I studied back in school) that he might be in a state of shock after the accident and a little bit of light hearted talk might prove beneficial (to both of us). 


“Does that hurt”, I asked touching his plastered hand. He nodded making me realize the degree of my absurdness. I sat on the chair next to the bed, shaking my legs in restlessness and looked at his still body in glances with no courage to look at it directly. His milky white skin had turned pale. His brown eyes caught my attention that were so intense, that I shifted my focus to the spider that had webbed his home near his bed. Even though I am a smooth talker (I really feel I am one) I  consciously thought of ways to strike up a conversation; especially with an unknown kid lying in ICU constantly looking at you waiting for you to say something rather than just stare. I cleared my throat and began, “You know this is the biggest hospital in the capital?” He nodded in a “no” which made me felt like a moron. Shifting to something more general, “Do you watch cartoons?” I asked attempting to cover up for the last one. “Sometimes”, he replied softly. “Umm, what all do you watch?”. “ Bahadur Billey and Captain Planet” he replied. I assumed that “Bahadur Billey” were the Swat Cats not the neighborhood meows. “They are so brave and powerful” he continued. Sensing victory I commented, “ By your powers combined, I am Captain Planet! .” mimicking the hoarse voice of the character and waited for his reaction. A giggle perhaps. Thought to myself, rather reassured that he must have been watching them in Hindi. He stared at me instead, longer this this time, making me feel like a nincompoop and I guess his eyes begged me to leave the room. So, I left trying before he certified me a lunatic and complained about me. I pinched his nose playfully and assured him that everything will be alright. After a while Shenaz walked in to check on the boy and that’s when I got to know his name; Krishna.

 On our way back Shenaz told me that he supposedly got into fight with the bullies. He was bought in to the NGO by police when he was spotted loitering around by the authorities at a railway station for a week. After questioning, he revealed his father's name, who was imprisoned for attempting burglary and his mother was dead. With no immediate family member to take care of him, he was sent to child shelter. As Shenaz told me about him, I tried to imagine his pain and agony of living without a mom while his father attempted Shawshank redemption back there in some jail.

It was after a couple of months that I saw him again, in the lunch hall eating with hundred other kids. He seemed fine now. He sat on the ground with his legs folded, fiddling with the roti instead of hogging like other hungry kids. Amidst the overwhelming smell of lentils, I walked up to him carrying a bucket of kidney beans. “Would you like some more”? He looked up at me as I smiled pointing the serving spoon at him. His dull face brightened with a sudden glow, “No, it tastes bad!” he replied making a weird face. “What tastes good then?” I asked making an equally weird face. He thought for a while and answered, “Ice cream and mangoes” He paused and continued, “and jalebi”. I waited if he had more to say. “That’s it?” I confirmed. He nodded in a yes. “Jalebi is my favorite too”. I said looking “And ice cream with mangoes and chocolate sauce”. We looked at each other and we laughed till we ran out of breath. 

 My semester was about to end and everybody was already tensed about the summer training and getting the reference letters. It was October and weather is usually quite pleasant at that time of the year. It was our routine that we would go out after the lunch to savour gola or ice cream at the vendor outside the college gate. That day the vendor asked us if we would like try a new mango flavour. As we slurped the ice cream, it somehow reminded me of Krishna and his sparking sad eyes.
I don't know there was something in his eyes that made him unforgettable, something which even a thousand words could never express. Just a look into his sparkling brown eyes would melt me and as I stood there wondering, so did my ice cream.


The very next day I went to see him with that “new mango flavour” ice cream and a big bag of jalebi. I looked for him frantically as I feared that the ice cream would melt. As I fantasized to send a search party to look for him I found him sitting on the playground bench reading a book. I sat beside him and looked into his book and said “Hi”! He looked up as I flashed a million dollar retard smile. He jumped and hugged me. It was indeed an unexpected gesture but a pleasant one for sure. We chatted about cartoons, superman, annoying school teachers, funny incidences and everything that came to our mind as we hogged the sweets. There is something about the kids living in shelter homes; they have the aura of an innocent child as well as the maturity of an adult when it comes to understanding. Unlike other kids (and the guys I have dated) he never asked me if I would see him again.


It was December already and semester exams were approaching, I took a month’s leave from the work. Everybody had already started preparing for the summer training and I had no spare time left even for the volunteer work at the NGO. Not that I am one of those studious kids just that you wouldn't want your parents to know that. The gruelling nights of struggling to decipher someone else's handwriting (read 'a looser with full attendance and no life') from the photostatted notes, kunji's and last year papers; a month of exams went past, really slow!


But just like there is end to every dark night and every fatal boring lecture, exams too got over, leaving everybody with dark circles and extra weight.


To compensate for the torture and the fun time lost, we friends sat outside the college canteen soaking in the winter sun, gulping gallons of coffee chatting to each other. I certainly must mention that, in my opinion bitching and gossiping constitute a major and an 'integral' part of the college life and a certain share of responsibility did rest upon my shoulders. Time just flew by, and most of the students were off to their home towns for winter break. 


I was back to office and volunteer work during the day time. Since it was begining of a new year, workshops were being held, documentary filmmakers came to shoot a story about the abandoned refugee kids. New kids came in, a few got adopted, refuge ones were sent back and certain lucky ones were rehabilitated. There was a huge exhibition depicting the plight of kids in refugee camps. Pictures from all over the world were on display. I took Krishna along with me and I remember him standing still at a portraits of two kids by B.K Bangash. I didn’t ask him, but I knew he could see and feel more than I could. I continued to meet Krishna every time I went to the shelter home. He talked at length about his mom, how she sang lullabies, how she loved Lord Krishna so much that she named him the same, how his dad would arrested so many times, his pet dog Pillu that he worried would be roaming hungry on the streets. He would listen with equal interest when I would tell him about my family, funny friends, boring lectures at college and stupid colleagues at work. As I always speculated with everyone I even asked him that if he would like to bet on whether I would pass in my statistics and quantitative analysis paper (yes, I am bad with numbers) Though just like me, he didn’t understand the complex subject name, he said that I seemed intelligent and I would pass. I thought that was really kind of him so I offered to take him to this new adventure park if I really did. 


It was February already and we had started with III semester, the busy schedule and bunking classes were back again. One fine day, results were out too and I struggled to find my name in the long list on the notice board. It happened what I feared the most, I had scored well in all the subjects but passed in the quant paper with grace marks (makes it evident that you almost failed) I thought of Krishna's mark "you seem intelligent" and it suddenly felt it was derogatory. I don't cling to tragic things for long and I thought of breaking the news to Krishna that I had passed and will take him to Adventure Island. I rang at the shelter home to surprise him; I held the line as warden went on to call him. The lady came back to tell me that he was sent back home. Next day I made abstruse inquiries and got to know that some relative of his came to claim his custody with all the required papers so they had to let him go. 


Winter, 2011

Last year I left the NGO and would only go either on special occasions or to just meet the people. Few months back, I went to attend Shenaz's farewell party as she was moving to France with her husband. I stood with my bunch of friends drinking “juice” (I know at least someone from my family will read this) when we got into argument about the “Curious case of Arushi’s murder” being stuck up for too long and how parenting has become a burden for modern couples. Me and a couple of friends felt that good parenting was irrespective of the class and economic background. But the majority had stats, as every kid in the NGO was from a lower middle class or below the poverty line family. Ankita the most talkative and hyper among all of us argued, “Poor people made poor parents too since they had no education and means.” I replied back, “No, I guess more than money you need values and culture to bring children up.” Vimal explained, “The fact that Lal Bahadur Shahstri, Abraham Lincoln, Dr. Kalam and most of our IAS officers come poor families; proves that poor parents can bring up their kids well too.” The counsellor girl “Ankita” thought that we were being unreasonable and that people we were talking about were exceptions and one in a million.


She continued, “You know the success rate of the rehabilitation in our own NGO?” She paused to think for a while, “Its 13%! You know why? Because there are people who still lack the basic skills of becoming a parent at all, forget about a good one! Their kids are the ones who end up back with us, go missing or mentally tortured or even getting killed like in the case of your Sarita, Majri, Krishna, and... and... What was the name of the girl who was poisoned by her father just because she started menstruating? She tried to recall. “ Aah! Shikha!” still hyper continued, “What will you call them?” Aren't they victims of ignorance and illiteracy. Vimal snapped back, “You know just like Arushi they might have been victim of circumstances, aren't kids from affluent families killed for honour?” He turned at me for agreement, I was inert and I didn't have the courage to ask if she was talking about the same Krishna... 


It was time to say Goodbye to Shenaz. I promised that I will write to her. She walked with me till the parking I couldn't stop myself from asking, “You remember the kid, whom I accompanied you to see in hospital some 4 years back?” She tried to recall when I prompted, “Krishna?” She paused and replied, “Oh! There are so many of them! Are you talking about the one who died?” 


“No, Shenaz, that fair kid with brown eyes, who got beaten up by bullies, don't you remember? I replied hopelessly, as I sat in the backseat of my car. She replied, “Yeah, I am talking about him only, “Krishna”. He was brutally beaten by his father's accomplice after he had a fall out with him. He was a hardened criminal. I wish we hadn't sent him back.  The silence was broken as my cell phone rang. “We have to go to see the new born. Everybody's waiting for you to get back! You are so late girl, dad will kill you!” my sister blabbered on the phone. “I know” I mumbled as I sat in the car and waved Shenaz goodbye...

Photo by B.K Bangash Bangash