Warmth

My breath is making the insides of the windshield foggy. "Pull down the window a li'l darling", says Mausam, my wife, as she brakes the car to a halt for the red light at a traffic signal. I roll down the windows of the rickety Maruti 800 as I am immediately greeted by a chilling gust of wind from the outside. Its an early morning of the middle winter season. "Brr.. It's so damn cold this time of the year", I remark with a shudder. "I am quite warm. You are a cold blooded creature", remarks Mausam with a playful nonchalant shrug of the shoulder as she eyes the motionless red bulb of the traffic light listlessly.

I look out from my car window, towards the footpath, at two playing street urchins. Both of them appear to be of the same age, two little 12 years olds. The taller of them is scraggy looking, with dirty hair and is wearing a brown muddy jacket with torn cargos. His shorter playmate is wearing a green sweater with tiny holes on the chest with dark grey dusty pants. The taller one is trying to remove some kind of ticks from the mottled hair of the shorter one with great interest and skill. Both of them are visibly shivering from the utter cold as the cloth they are wearing fail to keep in the warmth.

The mist is swirling around them, as if engaging in their play,  as careless in its freezing touch as their uncaring spirits. The mist laden air rains a shower of icicles up my lungs and stings my eyes. Pity smothers me as I watch the urchins play, unmindful of the fact that they have to beg and tap at the windows of the cars, with their palms and nose flat on the glass and cry for a few rupees. I remember the old jacket lying on the back seat, which I had brought along with good intentions just in case I happen to see such kids, as I do often. I would term it as being "primed up for charity" and also, I could put my old clothes for a good cause. "Ek minute Musu, just wait for me please."

"Arreh, it's a signal! Why don't you.." I leap out of the car, cutting her off in mid-sentence,  the maroon jacket tucked in my hand. "Aye, yeh lo, take this jacket", I call out to them in my chaste ruffian Hindi. They immediately stop fooling around and peer toward me. I extend my hand with the jacket, in their direction, "take this and wear it, yeh lo." As soon as I complete the sentence, the two scamper in my direction, their hands in the air, eager to grab hold of it. The taller one grabs the left sleeve and the shorter one, the collar. And they start to pull. "Mujhe de, give it to me!", the Tall-Boy shrieks,

"Nahinn, it's mine", says the Short-Boy,

"Get lost, you already got a new sweater from Maa today",

"Isme cheddh hai saaale, huge holes, I feel cold",

"My jacket too has no zip, its useless, give it to me"

"Nooo, I want it", cries the Short-Boy

The Tall-Boy lifts his right hand, palm extended, eyes enraged and gives a resounding slap across the Short-Boy's face. Short-Boy bursts into tears, beads running off his dirty cheeks, making two parallel, visible, paths through the soot on the skin, mouth wide open, crying like a baby but still clenching the collar of the jacket, as if his life depended on it. Tall-Boy starts to pull again, this time dragging the weaker Short-Boy towards him, as his knees grate on the concrete pavement, getting bruised by the second.

The lights turn green. Mausam shouts out, "Come back, we gotta go now". I stand there, watching with increasing exasperation as the two urchins continue their violent street-fight. I go to the Tall-Boy, giving him a corporal push. "Band karo yeh sab, stop it!". The sleeve slips out from Tall-Boy's hands as his eyes lock with mine, seething with a queer mix of surprise and anger. Loud honking begins, as a Ford Endevour standing behind my car tries to make my wife move. "Oye come back we have to move!", Mausam cries out. The SUV begins to turn right, with the intention to circumnavigate my car. I turn around towards my car and take a step forward, leaving the two brats upto their whims.

Theres a resounding metallic THUMP.

I turn towards the sound as I see the SUV speeding away. I see some people running towards my own car. I look down on the road and see Tall-Boy bending down over a bloodied mass of a child's body. "Arreh Maara gaya, he's dead", somebody amongst the rushing crowd screams. Suddenly it dawns on me. It's Short-Boy. The maroon jacket lies on his waist, squished in with trampled flesh, his head, lying limp sideways with a bloodied crack on the forehead, the body marked out by a small pool of blood. "Isne dhakka maara, he kicked him and he fell in front of the car, maine dekha", remarks a dark skinned labourer, pointing at the now whimpering Tall-Boy. "It was the big car which hit him, Badi gaadi", says another turbaned old man with a white moustache.

Terror rushes into my head as everything goes into slow motion. I look towards Mausam, sitting in the car, eyes wide with shock, hand on her mouth. I feel the warmth of the rushing adrenaline throbbing in my blood. My eyes sting and burn. My ears go deaf with muted shoutings. Somewhere a wailing mother rushing towards the gathering, a small infant in her arms, her mossy green saree scraping the road, trailing behind her like a robe of a paupered crazy queen. For a second, I begin to wonder if Short-Boy is feeling any warmer with my jacket on top of him. Suddenly realizing the oddity of my thoughts, I put my hands in my pant pockets, as a shiver runs down the whole breadth of my spine. The mist is swirling lightly over the road, wrapping and engulfing each person in the small gathering, like an icy vulture feeding on the warmth of the bodies. 

Wrapped in the warm blanket of Death, the boy sleeps. And I feel cold, very cold.