Amir, a familiar sight outside the college gates, always struck me as the archetype of street kids – young, barely fourteen, dressed in tattered clothes, with weathered feet and a gaze filled with desperation.
Approaching me one day, he did not even get a chance to ask for money before I brusquely cut him off with a curt, “No money for you.” But his response caught me off guard. “But you could buy me some daal-chawal, raw,” he suggested. And to my surprise, I agreed readily.
I followed him to a shop he suggested and bought him some raw lentils and rice. From then on, Amir would meet me at least twice every month with his requests. At times he would ask for some cooking oil and even bathing soaps.
His consistent appeals eventually made me suspicious of him. So, on the subsequent encounter, I opted to fulfil his needs while keeping a close watch. Donning my headphones, I lingered nearby, pretending to peruse items in a neighbouring shop.
From my covert vantage point, I observed as he exchanged the supplies for cash. “That’s good,” he remarked. “Sixty per cent should be enough for the cost of living.”
