Fixing the weak ends on weekends

Upant Sharma

An official trip reunited me with an old colleague employed with an MNC in Gurugram. I wondered what he did over weekends since he was living all by himself. Weekend was something he looked forward to, he said, promising to take me along to experience what he claimed was ‘ethereal’. I feel grateful. He took me to a slum area, where he teaches children in a park. 

Two skimpily clad urchins, sporting dishevelled hair, grabbed my attention. One of them flipped onto his back and splayed his legs without a jerk while the other did perfect handsprings. I was surprised at how they managed to perform acrobatic manoeuvres at such a tender age.

‘They learn techniques every day by watching Manoj bhaiya. He lives in our area and performs various stunts for pleasure,’ said someone. 

Some children dashed across the park at a jaw-dropping sprint, spotting my fallen car keys. Just then, a shabbily dressed girl tugged at my sleeve, holding up her notebook and asking me to help her with her homework. Seeing her runny nose, which she was wiping on the sleeve of her dress, I offered her my handkerchief, which she gladly accepted. 

My friend told me that when he first met the girl about six months ago, she knew nothing of maths and had little knowledge of reading and writing English and Hindi alphabet. But now she had shown remarkable improvement in all subjects. He told me to help her with her work, while he and two teenage volunteers walked towards a crowd of scruffy children, gambling in the park. They encouraged them to sit and study instead. I was now with the child on a secluded bench. 

We solved two-digit sums proficiently and moved on to three-digit problems. But boredom in her eyes drove me to open her scrapbook that was in tatters. Her drawing skills were too good for her age. The first page was titled ‘Home’ while the next showed two figures under which she had written ‘Ma’ and ‘Pa’. Next were three little kids — her siblings and herself in the middle. She told me her father was a driver who would leave early morning and return late in the night. Her mother worked as a maid. 

What did she aspire to be? She smiled in all innocence, as if she was unable to put across her feelings. I fiddled with my phone. She gently pulled my hand and pointed to a small kiosk in the distance. The bugle sounded the end of the Saturday session. The kids went into a huddle before scampering off to their homes. My friend asked them to meet him again the following day. Amidst the warm adieus, the girl softly turned around and passed a wistful glance, as if thanking her teacher for being friends with her and quietly slipping candies inside her bag. 

Taking pride in my friend’s efforts to uplift the downtrodden, I reflected on the possibilities and potential the future possessed in its belly.