At the end of a hectic day, I walked home wearily, preoccupied with my thoughts. On the snaky, long road -- it wasn't actually long, except after a day's hard work -- I spotted a small boy. He was staring at something. He was a street child. His shirt, dirty beyond the magic claims of all those detergents, was in tatters; his oversized shorts kept slipping down every few seconds. As I drew closer, I saw he was watching a bunch of rich kids playing in a small, well-maintained private park. A high fence enclosed it. It was beautiful, with a neat lawn, lots of flowers, bright-coloured slides, seesaws and jungle-gym -- all so enticing and inviting. Suddenly the boy jerked out of his reverie. "Hey!" he shouted. "Tell me how to enter, I also want to play!" No one replied. The kids continued with their games, the ayahs with their gossip. The boy tried to draw their attention by shouting and waving his hands. He began running along the fence, looking for a way to enter. Then he spotted the gate and ran towards it. I watched him. He tried to slip in, but a hawk-eyed security guard chased him away with a stick, as if he were a street dog. Though put off initially, the boy approached a second time. He pleaded with the guard, begging him to let him in. The man raised his baton and moving forward threateningly. Dejected, the boy trudged back to where he was earlier. He stuck his face in the fence and watched the kids laughing and playing. A small child playing nearby approached him. He began to reach out to where the street boy was standing. But his ayah stopped that move. "Don't go there!" she shrieked, running over and scooping him up. As she carried him away, the boy looked back. He smiled at the street boy, not understanding the situation. It looked so incongruous. Don't children have the right to play? I wondered. Schooling for all our children is yet a dream. So are shelter and three meals a day. But the right to play? There are several 'public' parks, made just for that purpose. But who maintains them? Who repairs broken slides? Who sees to it that such parks serve the purpose they are meant for? Who sees to it that the costs for erecting them are justified? No one. Nobody really cares. Just a little way from where I stood was a government park. You can hardly see it because of the weeds. There is no sand in the sandpit, the slides are rusty, the chains of the swings are broken, and the seesaw has no seats. Nobody goes there, not even street children. I passed the boy, looking at him. There were tears in his eyes. I looked back after a few steps. He was standing there, watching the children. My heart was heavy. I walked on, not looking back. I approached a grocery shop. "That reminds me," I told myself, "I have to buy milk, bread and eggs for tomorrow." Barely a hundred feet and everyday thoughts had clouded my mind! I felt ashamed. I really cared about that boy and my heart really hurt for those minutes I watched him. But alas, few really act on such minutes of intense emotion. Want to read another leaf from Meera Guthi's diary? Click here. Illustration: Lynette Menezes Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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