A flutter of fingers. A shooting-star smile. A sunlit sonata.
I have seen this little boy on several occasions, scurrying around on hamster-legs with a thicket of raffia curls on his head. The moment I saw him, my heart folded itself into a paper kite with his marshmallow hands pulling at the string. I have smiled at him, waved at him but never asked for his name.
Our hearts know each another.
He is the youngest son of a family which lives in my friend’s apartment. They are gatekeepers, security guards, residents without rights. Their home is a broom cabinet (with paid rent, of course), their courtyard is the basement. Their livestock consist of cars and bikes shrouded in canvas, stationed in corners like so many sterile, metallic barn animals.
The little boy has a penchant for manning the gates. His strength is colossal and his gait nimble: he consequently manages to escape injury by the creaking irons. He tags along with older boys who often form a protective penguin-cluster around him.
The other day, I visited my friend to help find her runaway cat. The little boy was clutching his father’s dhoti-wrapped leg as if it were a sailing mast in choppy waters. The sun danced on his face. As his father and my friend discussed the cat’s whereabouts, I caught the little boy’s eye.
My face was masked and his was bare but I knew he could see my smile. I blinked playfully and fluttered my fingers at him.
Most children chuckle in surprise or avert their faces. This little boy waved back and then dived into the folds of his father’s dhoti.
As a flower cradles nectar, so does my mind cherish his incandescent smile. In this world of rifts and distances, miracles will never cease.
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