Hunger

320 words


Rajesh’s small hands went to his mouth, indicating his hunger. The midday sun beat down on his dark, unprotected head. As one of many street kids in the dusty streets, begging tourists for money, even if observed, it was simply as part of the scenery in the teeming throng of the marketplace.
He shoved his way through the crowd, anxious to get back to his mother and siblings even younger than he, knowing they were waiting for him to return with a few rupees.
Even at his tender age, seven-year-old Rajesh knew his mother was very sick.
Breathless, he ran through the rabbit warren that were the slums, the putrid odour of open sewers and garbage was the smell of home, the only home he’d ever known in Mumbai amongst the poor of the poorest.
He reached a house made of corrugated, tin sheets and ran inside. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness as he searched for his mother, who lay where he’d left her several hours before on a thin mattress on the dirt floor. She was holding the youngest child, a baby not much more than a month old, who suckled at her empty breast.
His sudden entrance let a flash of sunlight into the house which in turn caused his mother to raise her head to ask her son if he’d managed to bring home some money. She spoke in a barely discernible whisper, but Rajesh didn’t need to hear her words and pressed a few rupees into her her dry, hot hand, before lying next to her and closing his eyes for a few minutes before seeking out his younger brothers.
He went back out onto the street and found three-year-old Vihaan and Roahan, almost five. Their dirty faces lit up when they saw their big brother, who took them by the hand to find some food from somewhere, or someone.
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