CHAPTER 2 - MR. SOMEBODY
It was almost 1.45 pm. The boy found a shady spot and sat down on the platform setting his heavy backpack by his side. He folded his knees, cross braided his arms and cowed down his head to rest. He was unmindful of the warm breeze causing the rustling sounds of the leaves or the occasional noise of motor vehicles passing by, his heavy eyes automatically shut to rest though fear and uncertainty continued to cloud his thoughts, soon he drifted off to sleep.
The boy felt a soft tap on his shoulder, he lifted his head dazedly and strained his eyes trying to fight off the sudden flush of light. He saw a silhouette form of a medium built man but couldn’t make further more. He lifted his left palm up to his forehead to block out the sunlight for better visibility.
The medium built man was wearing a navy blue round necked T-shirt with “being human” printed in cursive font and plain biscuit brown shorts. The man's hair was disheveled with more pepper and less salted look. He had a broad forehead, thick square eyebrows and bold confident eyes, suggesting the man to be in his early thirties. The rest of his features were covered by a white N95 face mask.
Eyes still half open the boy gave an uninteresting glance at the standing man though suddenly his eyes opened wide when his sight met a disposable Areca leaf plate full of bright yellow coloured lemon rice with scarlet coloured vegetable gravy.
But then the boy’s conscience and heart got engaged in a civil war whether to accept the free meal or not, but whilst the civil war was still raging, his hand had involuntarily held out to accept the food plate - truly hunger has the power to conquer anything in this world.
The boy murmured a smile and hungrily began to gather big morsels of rice mixing it with the gravy, gathering it in his palm and stuffed mouthfuls of it in short intervals, not giving enough time to chew down. After a few mouthfuls, his hunger started to suffice, he gradually slowed down to finish the hearty meal. Not a grain of rice or vegetable was left. His mother had taught him not to waste food. She always says - wasting food is equivalent to depriving someone else of food.
With renewed strength, the boy looked around searching for a bin to dispose of his plate but the sight he met was terribly disturbing. The place around was strewn with used plates, spilled food and cups, flies were buzzing, crows had gathered dragging the littered plates here and there cawing and fighting over the leftovers - The avenue has become like an old stained saree.
