There are two children walking on the Bandstand promenade. They are scraping little sticks, in play, along the low wall separating the beach from the pavement. Siblings – the eldest perhaps four years old, the youngest, two. Both have short hair, crow black; the youngest with a fringe of dark auburn. The eldest wears a tee shirt and long shorts; the youngest a short sleeved shirt with long black shorts.
Neither child wears shoes.
I watch them play happily together until they see me sitting on a bench close to their play ground. The eldest scoops her brother up onto her hip and walks straight towards me with out-stretched hand. It’s a well practised manoeuvre.
I don’t know what she is saying and ignoring the out-stretched palm, begin a conversation. I make up a little story about the character on the girl’s tee shirt and pointing to the text next to the cartoon character ask the little girl if this is the character’s name.
Sliding the boy off her hip the girl looks down to her chest where the cartoon character wrestles with a blue balloon. She pulls the fabric tight and points to the text telling me what she sees there. We chatter quite happily, a smile on her face, a knowing of a different world to mine emanating from her sparkling eyes. Her brother looks on with a stern expression. He says nothing.
The little girl, when not engaged in our conversation automatically resorts to her rhythmically chanted phrase while pulling at my bag on the bench. I shake my head.
I quickly find another prop for a story. Again, I point to the script on her shirt and ask about it. In reply she points to the words written on a dedication plaque attached to the back of the bench on which I am sitting. ‘Rotary Club of Bombay Airport’. She picks out letters that are repeated making a collection of the ‘A’s and then does the same with all the ‘O’s. I give them a sound. She repeats the sound. Together we go through each one of the letters pointing and then making the corresponding sound.
This little girl would thrive in the classes of children run by volunteers that meet every morning under the shade of the mangroves next to the beach. Each one of the eight classes comprises six or so children sitting around an adult teacher on a vibrantly coloured blanket, working from shared books at reading, maths and science. The children work hard and quietly, transfixed by their tutor’s instruction. At the end of their lesson cricket is played on the scrappy bit of green next to the fishermen’s huts. Rounding their school morning off the children enjoy vida pao, seasoned potato in a bread roll, collect their shoes from a neatly stacked pile at the corner of the promenade before heading home.
The little girl and I pause after our lesson. She resumes her begging, and grabbing her brother’s dirty hand turns it palm up to reveal a wound. Surely this deserves a few rupees? It looks infected and needs cleaning at the very least. I have nothing in my bag that might help with the wound. His finger nails are long and ragged, black dirt packed tight underneath them. He doesn’t appear concerned with this wound, glowers at me, curious at the response the offering of an infected wound will generate. He hasn’t yet perfected the technique of making a wound generate an income as the lepers at the traffic lights have.
The children’s clothes are dusty and soiled as are the clothes of all children who take their play seriously. Their noses are blocked with thick mucus, sleep embedded in the corner of their near black eyes and dark brown dust in matt patches on the beautiful skin of their deep golden faces. The small boy begins to grow in confidence. He leans up against my leg and picks at my tunic. The girl resumes her chant. Distracting her again I point at the pearls on her bracelet and the little ear ring she wears in her left ear and ask about them. She acknowledges them and laughs as she tells me about them.
More pulling at my bag. Again, the children try the pocket in my salwa for change. I’ve run out of props and can offer nothing more as a means to continuing our conversation.
Leaving the bench I wave goodbye. The wave was returned with a ‘bye’ and a smile. I expected pursuit, but there was none. The two children resumed their play along the promenade wall.
