Another Heaven. Annu Subramanian

I’d like to have one, but…” the boy opened a shabby, yellow cloth bag that was home to a small tub of shoe polish, a piece of dirty rag, and a sponge. The bag also contained a puny slab of soap, a greasy comb, a pair of threadbare khaki pants, and a frayed shirt that was several sizes bigger for the boy’s lean frame. “But I just polish shoes.”

      “Oh,” sighed Imran. “That can’t get you much.”

      “It doesn’t. Polishing a couple of pairs of shoes gets me a cup of tea. Polishing a few can get me a cup of tea and a piece of bun. Sometimes I carry heavy parcels to rich people’s cars. Then, I can really get a meal.”

      “When do you go home?” asked Imran, smiling warmly at the destitute child.

      And the child liked the smile that held something he had not felt in a while—a long-forgotten caress, a touch of affection—and he cherished it for a few moments. “I don’t go home,” the boy responded softly, looking away. He wouldn’t look at the man’s face because he didn’t want to cry. And there were unshed tears sloshing within his small frame, trying to break loose. “I don’t have a home.”

      “Oh…then where do you sleep?”

      “I sleep just about anywhere—under that shade when it rains a lot,” he said, pointing at the awnings of Sri pharmacy, “under that big tree when it doesn’t rain, and in dark alleys and on a bench in the railway station to avoid policemen.”

      “Do you get into trouble with the police?” asked Imran, smiling indulgently.

      “No, but a policeman beat me because I was taking a leak in the corner of that street. Where else am I supposed to take a leak when I don’t have a home?” asked the boy, an unknown anger creeping into his young, sore mind.

      “It must have hurt so much. You’re just a child. How can that policeman treat you like that?”

      “He was cruel,” hissed Salman, his dormant frustration and helplessness gathering to the surface like an unexpected, rapid storm. He lifted his shirt a few inches to exhibit the purple bruise on his ribs. “Look, look how the policeman beat me.”

      “This society stinks, I tell you. And the policemen are heartless monsters. Who is there to protect you?” asked Imran, defending the boy’s human rights. “Who is there to question that horrible policeman?” continued Imran, looking equally frustrated.

      “There is nobody.”

      “What’s your name?”

      “Salman. I’ve to go,” said the boy, still lingering. “Soon the customers will arrive. It rained last night, and the roads will be dirty. I think more men will want their shoes polished today.”

      Imran walked away, but he continued to observe the boy through the window of a corner store.

      “Looks like your first meeting went well, Imran?” asked Manohar, standing by him.

      “Yes. His name is Salman, and...” Imran told his associate whatever he needed to know.

      “Let’s meet here at the same time tomorrow. See you soon.” Manohar began to walk towards a waiting taxi.

      “But don’t let him notice you, Manohar. I’ll buy him tea a couple more times. I want him to get very familiar with me, but you stay out of his sight.”

      d

      Manohar and Imran observed Salman for over a week. The boy had a quick wash by the public water fountain before sunrise. It had to be an early wash because women started lining up with their pails for water to cook and to bathe. On the seventh day, Manohar waited with Imran to observe the young boy, but he was nowhere to be seen. Salman finally appeared after the sun was up, squeezing his eyes and smoothing his disheveled hair.

      “Salman must have overslept,” hissed Manohar, impatiently pulling smoke from his cigarette.

      “What are you doing, you rat?” one of the women shouted, throwing her pail at Salman when he reached for some water. “Do you know you’ve to pay money to stand in line here? I’ll call the police if you touch the tap again with your filthy hands.”

      Manohar watched the child’s humiliation and helplessness from the tea stall. “A poor boy. A helpless child. It’s time to organize the hook, Imran,” he whispered, exchanging a very satisfactory smile with his associate.

      d

      A week later, Imran spotted Salman under the awnings of the pharmacy. It had rained a lot during the previous night.

      “How have you been, Salman?” asked Imran, approaching the boy. “Come, let’s have some tea and nashta.”

      Salman smiled when he recognized the kind man. “Nashta?” he asked, trying not to drool. He had not eaten a proper breakfast since his mother died.

      “Come on, Salman, don’t be shy. You know me quite well by now.”

      Imran ordered an omelet and bread for Salman and settled him at one of the tables in the back. Salman started to eat ravenously when he realized that he had not thanked the generous man properly. He looked for him, but he was not there. Where was he? Wasn’t he hungry? Didn’t he need some nashta?

      Manohar, standing across the tea stall, waved and nodded his head. Promptly at the cue, a couple of uniformed policemen walked into the tea stall. As Salman was about to leave, one of them took hold of his collar.

      “Hey, what are you doing here?” asked the policeman.

      Salman looked at the officer who was towering over his puny frame. What was he supposed to say? And why shouldn’t he be there?

      “Answer me. What are you doing here?” roared the policeman’s voice.

      “Having a cup of tea,” Salman trembled. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all.

      “What’s your name?”

      “My name is S… Salman.”

      The other policeman’s red-shot eyes rested on Salman’s frightened expression. “Empty your pockets, and what do you have in that bag?” he screamed.

      Salman gathered his dirty, yellow bag to his chest and froze.

      “I asked you to empty your pockets,” barked the policeman.

      Salman’s terrified eyes flew from one end of the stall to the other end, frantically searching for the kind man who had bought him tea and bread and omelet. Where did he go? Why did he disappear?

      While the first policeman took the bag away from the wailing boy’s clutch, the other emptied his pockets. The left was empty. The right had half a beedi and a small plastic bag containing a whitish powder.

      “Who gave you this?” asked the second policeman, dangling the plastic bag of white powder in front of Salman’s face, while the other held the boy by his crumpled collar. “And already smoking beedi at your young age?”

      “I don’t know what you are talking about,” replied Salman, fear invading his usually vacant eyes. “I’ve never seen that before, and I’ve never smoked.”

      “Really? Then how did this plastic bag get inside your pocket?”

      “I don’t know. I really don’t know. Please let me go,” cried Salman.

      The first policeman struck Salman violently across his cheek. When he reeled to the floor, a few heads turned in his direction.

      “This is the last thing I need for my business, especially first thing in the morning,” muttered the owner of the tea stall. “I hope the policemen haul the boy out of here quickly.”

      And the policemen did haul the boy away, first out of the crowded stall, then into a jeep. Manohar, watching the human indignity from a distance, smiled contentedly at Imran. He knew Salman would be finally hauled into an airless, bleak room at the police station.

      “Looks