Incident of the lost ring OR morality of desperation

I returned to volunteering with street children at Churchgate after almost a year. Hamara Footpath is a community group that teaches street kids on the pavement itself, hoping to make the streets a learning environment for its kids. Luckily, managing manic toddlers gives you no time to get nostalgic, to marvel at how tall some have grown, how some girls have transformed into young women overnight. It gives you no time to offer your condolences to the street woman who lost her husband and son on Diwali, standing in a dark corner and watching. The key to holding a crazy 5 year olds attention, is to never let it slip in the first place. Be constantly on the move. Do anything, stand on one leg or jump, but keep the pace and keep innovating. Don’t give them the space to think or get bored.

But even with no time to think, a realization creeps in. Something that gets me down once in a while. Nothing has changed. We have been teaching the same things for 3 years. The kids are still treading on razor sharp edges of the city, begging, working, vulnerable to abuse and accidents. Who would’ve known at that moment that a week later, Sonu, the 10 yr old smiley kid who won my ‘Langdi’ (hopping) competition, would have an accident, fracturing her foot grievously.

So imagine this.

Its 8-30 pm. The city’s winding down, people are heading home from work and evening walks. You are winding down by teaching street kids the Macarena. You’re aware that it only takes a minute for the dance lesson to turn into a riot, and make steps as you go. You’re also aware that you are overwhelmed with feelings you can’t express.

And while you’re caught in this commotion of Macarena and muted emotions, a huge foreigner passes through your class on the street, and lifts each toddler in the air. The kids climb all over him in their excitement. He gives you a welcome break of 5 minutes. But when he walks away, you notice that the kids have gathered around something. You discover it’s a ring that must have slipped from the foreigner’s hand and pocket it. You call it an evening, and go ahead to catch up with other volunteers.

But the kids don’t leave you alone. They’re slyly putting their hands in your pocket, looking for the ring. You yell at them but it makes no difference. Soon their parents have surrounded you, arguing about f&*% knows what. They want to know what business you have taking a ring their kids found. They suspect it’s a gold or diamond ring worth thousands that will solve all their problems. They suspect you have the same idea as them, i.e selling it.

They make a group and follow you to the train station. A passerby asks if you if need help, and you politely refuse. To be accused of pocketing rings after 3 years of volunteering with this community, to be distrusted in your intent to find the ring’s owner hurts you. It angers the crap out of you, and you yell on the streets like a hooligan. At 9-30pm, Churchgate station, there’s no difference between you and the street people.

You’re sitting in a lonely compartment, watching billboards whizz by. You still can’t figure out what exactly do you feel, when you get a call. Lakshmi, the 60 yr old street lady you’re fond of, who’s never raised her voice at you before, starts hurling accusations. She is desperate. Lakshmi, who’s daughter found the ring lost her husband and an adult son few months ago, leaving behind her, a mother of ten, and a daughter-in-law, mother of 3. The men didn’t earn much, but atleast they shared the burden of uncertainty. They are shattered. And helpless. In such a situation, if your child finds a foreigner’s ring, you can’t be blamed for thinking god is finally showing mercy.

After hanging up, I pulled the ring out of my pocket. It was brass with something inscribed. It couldn’t be worth more than 50 rupees. If only the parents knew. I was desperate to make sense of the Latin inscription, find out what it meant. It seemed like a holy ring of sorts.

Bombay is an assault. Even to the lucky few who’ve lived a privileged life in it. When you land, the first thing to slap you is the humidity. The first people to hug you are your parents, who’ve longingly waited for you the while you danced in Turkey. In ten minutes, you are re-introduced to family gossip, insane traffic, insane pollution, with lepers and magazine vendors sticking their faces at your window at most signals. They are kids. And that detail kills you. If you were aware of the violence, the hardships they face, you’d probably have anxiety attacks at most traffic signals too.

I will be honest here. Living the glamorous life of a dancer in Turkey made me kind of homesick. Months in hotels made me realize the value of a kitchen, if only to use the kitchen sink to wash fruits. Surrounded by ladies in constant make up made me appreciate the simple luxury I enjoy. I can look like myself at all times.

So where does that leave me? I’m happy to be back. But just not prepared to encounter the complexities of Bombay life. In my world, when we find a lost ring, we search for the owner. When someone tells us otherwise, we give them a lecture on morality. But sitting in this train, the ground under my feet felt rickety, awfully unstable. It didn’t have the rhythm of a choreographed reality. If I had the energy, if I could give myself a reason to cry, I would have.

Over the next few days, I kept telling myself that there are no perfect solutions, and happy endings. You win some, you lose some. It’s important to know what’s worth losing, and what must be kept at all costs. I decided to give the ring to the family, so they can see for themselves that there are no miraculous solutions to their problems. To tell them that sometimes, goodwill is wiser than material gains.

While walking to Lakshmi, a week later, I kept reminding myself there are no perfect solutions. What I needed to focus on was the future. I was nervous. I was ready to yell. I was ready to fight. I was wound up. Luckily, Lakshmi wasn’t. She smiled when she saw the ring, and smiled when I asked her to promise she wouldn’t yell at me again. If she or her family yelled at me again, I would stop visiting. To cut the long blog short, her daughter-in-law Dhanno is keen to start working, something her husband never did. We’ve decided to help Dhanno buy knick-knacks to sell in the local train. The first batch will be bought by us, and the remaining hopefully with the profit she earns. We expect her to give us weekly accounts.

So, I apologize to the poor foreigner who lost his ring 2 Wednesdays ago. Inshallah, the spirit of what’s inscribed in them comes alive. Yes I don’t know what it means, but I have a feeling its something good.

For anyone interested in supporting Dhanno’s business venture of local train selling, or treating Sonu, the 10 yr olds fracture, let me know.

And thankyou Nihalf. Like the ring, you forced me to push the fences I built around myself.