This day was an eye-opener for me, after having had my breakfast and morning bird view newspaper browsing, walked up to my room which is little far away from my dining. Thanking God for the day and reached my room but my mind was not in a position to write, but bit distracted and fully immersed with a story that peeped into my what’s up. There was a strong force in my sub-consciousness mind to share this story as many as possible and to all my readers. How childhood is a precious gift from God, and some are blessed to cherish it, yet few are not.
Well dear my friends, let me not keep your curiosity waiting what is this story all about. I would like to start with this following words ‘”childhood it happens just once, I just hope, hungry diners like me and greedy restaurateurs do not take it away” let every child go through the experience of being a child and to get know that childhood is a great gift from above.
I visited the an extremely posh restaurant, this weekend. No, this story is not a restaurant review about the dry biryani or hot lassi. It is not about the Rajasthani style painting that adorned the deep dark wooden panels. It is not about the silly waiters dressed like nervous fresh MBA grads from an obscure college, with white shirts and uncomfortable ties.
It is about a little boy, the little boy who poured water into my glass and cleared out my table. He walked around nervously with a heavy jug of water, wearing the same black trousers and white shirt, no tie. His eyes darted across the room like a scared rabbit, scanning the place for empty tumblers that needed a refill.
He was hardly four and a half feet tall, not a trace of facial hair. He couldn’t have been a day older than 12. He caught me staring at him and looked back, wondering whether to smile or look away. And then, with those wide innocent eyes filled with confusion, he gave me a slow, hesitant smile.
Something tugged my heart strings and soon enough the dryness of the biryani or the callousness of the waiter who whisked away my rejected hot lassi was not the problem anymore.
There was this child here pouring water and removing used plates from tables when he should have been kicking around a football on that hot Saturday afternoon. He was trying to satisfy strangers in that dark restaurant when should have been out with his friends, laughing and teasing his school teachers.
He was trying to keep that white shirt clean lest the senior waiters scold him when he should have been wondering if his mother would have Surfed for his school uniform after a romp in the mud.
The hotel was not one of those dirty roadside eateries that gave a damn about the laws of the land, it was a reputed chain of quality restaurants. And child labour was a criminal offense.
The dormant social activist in me got all fired up, and I summoned the boy and asked him how old he was. He looked at me, bewildered. “Si..sixteen”, he stammered. I am not very knowledgeable about the child labour laws, but I guess above 14 does not qualify as child labour.
Well, Ok. Then I asked him how long he was working there. Almost a year, he said. A rehearsed lie? Maybe, but again, legally fine. But morally? Emotionally? I am torn.
I remembered my cousin Samar who used to share his Cadbury’s chocolates with beggar children when he was ten. “Let them taste chocolate”, he used to say, “If we give them money they will be forced to buy food.
Every child needs to taste chocolate.” I have always marveled at Samar’s compassion. Even as the child, he understood that basic need for childhood.
One voice inside my head kept telling me to lodge a complaint with the authorities. Let the officials determine whether he was actually 16 and the restaurant was not breaking any laws.
Let them penalize the restaurant if they were breaking the law (which I am certain they were) and give back this child, his childhood. Send him back to school. But the other voice inside me kept telling me to let it go.
Maybe this child’s income from clearing out tables is what puts two meals on the table in his own house. And here, I was torn between a child’s childhood and his livelihood.
With the two voices inside my head still waging a never-ending debate, I left the restaurant, with a heavy heart. All I could do was leave a generous tip, and hope that at least a part would reach the child.
Well, dear friends, this story is real, we intern in life will come across, children like this doing odd jobs in hotels, industries, motor machine sheds, small scale industries etc. Let us help them as much as possible to make their livelihood easier, by whatever possible way we can. It all takes a little generous heart for the child and for their childhood.
If not we who else can, we are part of the world, we have every responsible for making every child happy whom we meet in our busy walks of life. The little happiness and smile we can contribute to every child whom we meet will give them a great hope for the future.
