the chowk

The chowk was small. Just a small roundabout. Belying the fact that it could get very busy. Busy three times a day. Morning, afternoon, evening. Morning for a stretch of about three hours. Afternoon for about two. Evening for one. So busy that the traffic would become log jammed. The roads would choke. It was busy aside from these three times. But not enough to cause the traffic to stop. All four roads around it were small and narrow. One was home to an elementary school. Another had a college and led to offices. The third had one of the better petrol pumps, better being a relative term, meaning that they didn’t water down their petrol with cheaper liquids. The fourth, thankfully, didn’t have anything that people would need to go to on a daily basis. It led out into a larger main road. Amaltas trees dotted the sides of the streets. Native to the subcontinent. In bloom, in this searing heat. Yellow flowers sprouting from their branches. Some didn’t even have leaves. Just flowers. They brought shade, and a better smell to the chowk. Right now, it was quiet. Quiet also a relative term. Some engines hummed. But traffic was fast. On one corner of the chowk sat a women sunburnt. Skin dark. Shake over her head. Eyes pleading and full of desperation. She sat on a shawl. One that maybe provided some relief from the burning concrete but probably not. She was hidden by a corner. Only people going in a particular direction might see her, and maybe not even then, accustomed as they were to ignoring those less fortunate, reluctant as they were to share their hard earned rupees and paisas with others. She moved a bundle near her.  A head the size of a fist came into view. Then as she unwrapped it, the whole body. A small child, stomach already swollen and chest already sunken. Ribs poking out from skin stretched taut. Hair brittle and browning from malnutrition. Skin lighter than his mother’s but on his way to darkening. Small tiny hands that flailed about, and then grabbed her face. Trying to hug her. She grabbed him and brought him closer to her. Tears began to stream down her face as she kissed him on the forehead and then hugged him to her bosom. She wiped them away, and kissed him. Grabbed a roti. Burnt. Baking. Hard and rough, broke it into pieces, and began to feed him. His tiny hands grabbed the pieces and shoved them and the hands into his mouth. His eyes were curious, bright. Looking around. His head seemed too large for his starved body. But his eyes were filled with intelligence. She kept on feeding him. Nearby, the school bell rang. Cars began to trickle in. Children in immaculately polished uniforms coming out, being picked up by guards or drivers, and driven back home in expensive vehicles. The amaltas trees sighed in the wind. The woman fed her child. The traffic was loud.