It was a girl's day out, if I may take the liberty to call my much married sister-in-law and ourselves, the two sisters, who are all on the wrong side of 25, girls. So now, Us, the trio, were loitering aim-fully in Karol Bagh
market, trying to add some dazzling sarees and fancy and uber girly stuff to our wardrobes. This is one of those "Sale" time in Delhi, where the windows, doors, roofs and even the roads leading to the shops shriek "--% sale". (Note - NRDs - Non-resident Delhiites, this is THE season to visit Delhi, forget the much romanticised Winters. You can just engage in some soul-liberating shoppo-hogging and appease your materialistic cravings!!)
Done with most of the planned and almost all of the unscheduled shopping, we decided to casually sauntered into a shoe shop. The board read "WINGS". Well, then may as well call themselves "FANGS". Why? I shall soon get to that.
Succumbing to our conditioned feminine ways (oh please do not label me a sexist here), we started trying out shoes, slippers etc. The peep-toes, the Osho slippers, the Kolhapuris, the wedges and also the 'Star-war' sandals (not inspired by the Star War series, but the ones which have crystals and gems loaded on them which give them the look of star-filled galaxies), we tried to evaluate most of them on our feet, dishing out some valuable critique as we carried on our pursuit of the trivial. To add to my serpentine description of our activities inside the shop, let me say we moaned and groaned heavily. No girls, there are no hunks in there, so save your excitement for some other time. But yeah, the prices even in this "Sale" season were very very steep.
And then it happened. As i was fancying a pretty pair of sandals, I asked someone to help me find the right size. All of a sudden, I sensed someone was trying to put a sandal beneath my foot. I look down. Its was a miserable sight. No no, I am not a good model for the heel repair cream ads and my heels are in good shape.
There kneeling before me was a scrawny boy, maybe 10 or 11. He was struggling with my foot and the sandal.
I leapt back. Not really leapt like a kangaroo, but yeah I moved back, shocked and horrified. "Arrey bhaiyya paid chhodo, paid chhodo mera", I was shrieking in the most civil manner possible. The kid looked confused, my sister sensing what I was trying to say, joined in; my sister-in-law who was somewhere else, came running trying to decipher what made me yell.
The three of us fixed our gaze on the little boy who was staring back at us. We said aloud in unison "You are so young. Don'fine jitna manage kar sakti hoon t you have a grown up salesman in the shop? Why the heck are you working here and like this?" "Nahin, nahin, kisi badey ko bulao. Yeh chota bachcha humarey feet nahin chuyega."
Now emerged the duffer or the MORON. A thickly built, man, who was till then busy chattering up his colleague (of the same genre). He looked visibly annoyed, because we had disturbed their abuse-laced afternoon banter. He stood there, paunch out, back slacking behind (you may add the act of scratching his scrotum to ignite your dislike quotient for the guy), his eyes trying to size us up and make sense of our demand for a grown up to assist us. The little bits I could catch of his simultaneous conversation with his mate was like "Women, I tell you. They fuss around so much. And whats with not letting the little @*$&#%@ assist them and forcing me to work? beep, beep, beeeeeppppp". So you see why I renamed the shop FANGS.
There are certain times when a direct, verbal assault or lecturing people on the illegality of child labour has no effect or desired result. Once we turn our backs, the kids are pulled back in service or slavery whatever we may call it. But we were fuming, angered by the nonchalance of the guys in the shop. Forget a tad bit of embarrassment, those men behaved as if we were the incredulous ones.
Something must have clicked within all of us that same moment. Why else would we launch a scathing,sarcasm-stuffed, loud and very animated shoo-shooing of all the shoes in the shop, the price range, the designs, the employees and all that came in the range of our sight?
The disgust, anguish, anger, desperation and guilt we felt rising in our throat that moment had to come out. In that moment, our expression of protest and resentment against the gory act of child labour was our verbal tirade accompanied by dirty glances at the owner who sat smugly on one of those black, ugly swivel chairs.
Our last words as we closed the shop door behind us were "bad shoes, bad men, bad attitude, pathetic deed." But was that enough?
Its been a couple of days now that the incident took place and yet the boy haunts me. So many more like him haunt me. Will the vice of child labour devour the happy years of children from the non-moneyed section? Can the law enforcement agencies, the NGOs, the government ever win their battle against the menace? Can, WE THE PEOPLE of this NATION, get a change of mind, heart, intent and action? Or are we doomed to go from being just STUPID to being MORONS? In the answer to my initial question, I found a greater, more grim truth.
We felt helpless that afternoon. We were seething with anger. The happiness shopping usually generated evaporated. The bags felt heavy. Our feet were sluggish as we walked towards the car, burdened with our realisation that we, as a combined polity is to be blamed for the plight of our children. It was twilight but gloom had long descended on our hearts.
"WINGS" had clipped the wings of that little boy we met. His dreams lay trampled under those shoes.
P.S - I know my small gesture will never be enough to put an end to the evil. Yet, I know may be some of us will refuse to drink that one cup of tea brought to us by little Guddu, or refuse to accept the home delivery services offered by the neighborhood shop through young Monu. Or else, even after a century, one of my own would yell and leap at the horrific sight of a pair of little hands trying to fix her a shoe.
Done with most of the planned and almost all of the unscheduled shopping, we decided to casually sauntered into a shoe shop. The board read "WINGS". Well, then may as well call themselves "FANGS". Why? I shall soon get to that.
Succumbing to our conditioned feminine ways (oh please do not label me a sexist here), we started trying out shoes, slippers etc. The peep-toes, the Osho slippers, the Kolhapuris, the wedges and also the 'Star-war' sandals (not inspired by the Star War series, but the ones which have crystals and gems loaded on them which give them the look of star-filled galaxies), we tried to evaluate most of them on our feet, dishing out some valuable critique as we carried on our pursuit of the trivial. To add to my serpentine description of our activities inside the shop, let me say we moaned and groaned heavily. No girls, there are no hunks in there, so save your excitement for some other time. But yeah, the prices even in this "Sale" season were very very steep.
And then it happened. As i was fancying a pretty pair of sandals, I asked someone to help me find the right size. All of a sudden, I sensed someone was trying to put a sandal beneath my foot. I look down. Its was a miserable sight. No no, I am not a good model for the heel repair cream ads and my heels are in good shape.
There kneeling before me was a scrawny boy, maybe 10 or 11. He was struggling with my foot and the sandal.
I leapt back. Not really leapt like a kangaroo, but yeah I moved back, shocked and horrified. "Arrey bhaiyya paid chhodo, paid chhodo mera", I was shrieking in the most civil manner possible. The kid looked confused, my sister sensing what I was trying to say, joined in; my sister-in-law who was somewhere else, came running trying to decipher what made me yell.
The three of us fixed our gaze on the little boy who was staring back at us. We said aloud in unison "You are so young. Don'fine jitna manage kar sakti hoon t you have a grown up salesman in the shop? Why the heck are you working here and like this?" "Nahin, nahin, kisi badey ko bulao. Yeh chota bachcha humarey feet nahin chuyega."
Now emerged the duffer or the MORON. A thickly built, man, who was till then busy chattering up his colleague (of the same genre). He looked visibly annoyed, because we had disturbed their abuse-laced afternoon banter. He stood there, paunch out, back slacking behind (you may add the act of scratching his scrotum to ignite your dislike quotient for the guy), his eyes trying to size us up and make sense of our demand for a grown up to assist us. The little bits I could catch of his simultaneous conversation with his mate was like "Women, I tell you. They fuss around so much. And whats with not letting the little @*$&#%@ assist them and forcing me to work? beep, beep, beeeeeppppp". So you see why I renamed the shop FANGS.
There are certain times when a direct, verbal assault or lecturing people on the illegality of child labour has no effect or desired result. Once we turn our backs, the kids are pulled back in service or slavery whatever we may call it. But we were fuming, angered by the nonchalance of the guys in the shop. Forget a tad bit of embarrassment, those men behaved as if we were the incredulous ones.
Something must have clicked within all of us that same moment. Why else would we launch a scathing,sarcasm-stuffed, loud and very animated shoo-shooing of all the shoes in the shop, the price range, the designs, the employees and all that came in the range of our sight?
The disgust, anguish, anger, desperation and guilt we felt rising in our throat that moment had to come out. In that moment, our expression of protest and resentment against the gory act of child labour was our verbal tirade accompanied by dirty glances at the owner who sat smugly on one of those black, ugly swivel chairs.
Our last words as we closed the shop door behind us were "bad shoes, bad men, bad attitude, pathetic deed." But was that enough?
Its been a couple of days now that the incident took place and yet the boy haunts me. So many more like him haunt me. Will the vice of child labour devour the happy years of children from the non-moneyed section? Can the law enforcement agencies, the NGOs, the government ever win their battle against the menace? Can, WE THE PEOPLE of this NATION, get a change of mind, heart, intent and action? Or are we doomed to go from being just STUPID to being MORONS? In the answer to my initial question, I found a greater, more grim truth.
We felt helpless that afternoon. We were seething with anger. The happiness shopping usually generated evaporated. The bags felt heavy. Our feet were sluggish as we walked towards the car, burdened with our realisation that we, as a combined polity is to be blamed for the plight of our children. It was twilight but gloom had long descended on our hearts.
"WINGS" had clipped the wings of that little boy we met. His dreams lay trampled under those shoes.
P.S - I know my small gesture will never be enough to put an end to the evil. Yet, I know may be some of us will refuse to drink that one cup of tea brought to us by little Guddu, or refuse to accept the home delivery services offered by the neighborhood shop through young Monu. Or else, even after a century, one of my own would yell and leap at the horrific sight of a pair of little hands trying to fix her a shoe.
