Children of God

The boy could hardly open his eyes. Whether he was literally visually impaired or it was a part of an enactment these people are taught, was a mystery for me. He must be some 10 or 12 years. Clad in the dirtiest pair of knickers, which were most probably weaved using the environmental dirt. Oil stains made all sought of designs and textures glorifying the fact that water had never dared to touch the piece of cloth that formed those knickers, barring the rains or every time he fell into a ditch. His shirt if it was one; because the only thing that symbolized the shirt was the faintly visible battered, rugged collar; could be most aptly defined using certain negative adjectives that personify the ordeal the boy had been through. He also wore a jersey. The jersey had its own story to tell. The ripped jersey had been a benevolent gift by a lady (note: it was a female cardigan) who wished the path of salvation, through her noble process of donation. I often wonder if we can so cunningly dupe the god to trade a place in heaven. Anyhow that jersey could hardly defy the chilling winter evenings of this desert state. All it did was, create an illusion for the tyrannical winter beast. But you can’t fool a monster, as my grandma would tell me in her bedtime stories. So this boy we have been talking about was none other than an heir of the Indian beggar dynasty.

I took a drag on my smoke and thought of the misery the world is for such unprivileged mortals. These souls have always been of great interest for a certain artistic breed of humans. Time and again these destitute find their place in the art galleries, embedded into a piece of artwork. Ironically this dark world of theirs which had been painted on a black and white canvass by the god, do find colors in their life but only on those wooden piece of artwork. These beggars, who earn scantily, provide an interesting picturesque view to the Midas’s around the world, when the same artwork is sold for a fistful of gold.

The documentaries made, portraying the ailing life of these so called children of god, often appease the jury and end up bagging a statue of a man with no eyes and hands holding a stick in a way such that it covers his crotch, the academies (OSCARS). I could easily deduce that these coal mines (the destitute) are the birth place of gold for a certain category of gold diggers (the art-people).

The literature too isn’t a mere spectator, as these poor souls often provide the food for the writers to eat on. May it be in the form of satire (this could be an example), play or a dramatic story.

The most astounding feature draws strong resemblance with irony. The so called socialists or social worker. These people who try hard to make the world a better place, by trying their level best to empower the poor. Isn't it surprising to know that these unemployed poor beggars provide employment to a great part of our society? Yet the social workers try to rip off the same branch they sit on. Whatever it may be but one thing is for sure. This so uneven society of ours, which provides a perfect kaleidoscopic view isn't a tragedy. It is rather a necessity. How hard we try to turn this world into a flat equal space, these disorders and inequalities keep persisting. And even if we wish with all our kind goody-pure heart for getting this inequality leveled. We know deep inside our hearts the world won’t be a stable place.

So as the boy keeps rounding up the place in search of alms. I wish that I never find myself in his shoes. Oh! I forgot. He isn’t wearing any.