It was damp outside, owing to the heavy downpour the previous night. He got up and sat in his little hub, examining the bruise caused due to the fight he had the previous day. He yanked of the little insects greedily feasting on his blood and continued looking at the injury with an eye of an eager chemist. He got up suddenly, ran to the nearby pool of water and washed it. But the bleeding wouldn't stop and the pain only worsened. He regretted his earlier action. But, he remembered correctly. His mother gave the same treatment to his injury before applying the thick green balm. it didn't give this reaction back then.
He suddenly realized that it was time to forget about the pain, which only seemed to grow by the minute. It was time to get to work.
He worked strenuously till the sun shined bright, carrying the stinking garbage to the waiting rickshaw from all the houses in the neighborhood. The rickshaw puller, his boss, was a mysterious man-always seemed to be a very cheerful and kind man, dancing unsteadily with a sweet smell hovering over him. He wondered where the smell came from. The boss had another thing which puzzled him-a brightly burning, thin stick emitting smoke between his lips, which initially frightened him. He choked when the boss had blown the smoke onto his face. But, lately, he had started to like the smell and the smoke. When he had enough money, he would try the burning stick.
When he had collected enough coins for his breakfast, he bought a stale piece of bread and ran quickly to hide and eat it. Exhibition of such a hard-earned prize food would attract the big boys, who would snatch his only breakfast and beat him up like how they did the previous day.
His stomach growled. He felt sick in his stomach as he took his first bite and he felt pressure building up inside his mouth, ready to push his bread out. He resisted it and waited until it died off. The bread didn't taste good, like it did when his mother gave him. He gobbled up the remaining part and settled down for another nap. But, sleep wouldn't come. He remembered his mother's voice when she sang him to sleep.
His head ached and throbbed. He put his his palm on his forehead, just like how his mother did when he felt this way before. His forehead felt warm and sweaty. He got up again and ran into the open though he didn't feel like running. It was time for school. He stood at a place from where , he could see kids running into the school building.
They were different-a lot different. They resembled neither him nor the big boys. They wore shoes and socks. They wore clean clothes and carried big bags. He enjoyed watching them.
There was a school boy as tall as he was, standing there, his mother bending down. She was setting his well-parted hair. The school school boy's hair look very impressive. He raised his sweaty palm to part his hair like the school boy's looking at his reflection in the small pool of dirty water on the street. When he got convinced that his ruffled hair looked like the boy's, he let out a sigh satisfied and looked at the school boy again. He moved closer to them to hear the mother's instructing her son to come back straight to his home after his school. He felt happy . He could go where ever he pleased. He had nobody to instruct him. He was a free bird, a master of his own.
But, as the mother kissed the school boy, and waved to him, he moved still closer hoping to catch her eye. She turned back without even looking at him and walked away as he stared after her. He turned back and ran in the opposite direction as the school boy walked slowly into his class.
