The Little Tea Boy
From the bus stop, I saw him at the Abid Market.
Barefoot, no older than seven. A cracked tray clutched in one hand, glasses clinking as he dashed from one corner of the road to another, like he’s playing catch and run in his fantasy of playgrounds. His tiny feet rhythm with his instincts of getting past the traffic. A careful adult. He slipped between cars with ease, dodged motorcycles like a breeze slipping through shutters.
He wore a shirt too big for his frame, stained with chai and sweat, his trousers rolled up like an old man’s, carrying the weight of years he hadn’t lived yet. And yet, in his eyes, just round of innocence of his small age, beautiful, tired eyes, void of any playfulness but duty, reflecting a sky he rarely looked up to.
A man thrice his size scolded him outside an AC shop. He nodded, turned back, and vanished into the alley like a shadow before emerging again with fresh cups, steam curling into the morning dawn, his balance steady as a tightrope walker’s, taking a little yet steady steps, professionally, with serious face.
I stared, unmoving. I wondered how he would smile, and run along with his friends, to shout and scream, cry because he fell on the ground and hurt his knee and got right back up. I wondered how he would wipe his eyes with his sleeve, letting the tears absorb in his silhouette, and started running again with full laughter. I wondered how he would spend his childhood, void of any purpose or meaning and just laughter until he grows to step in responsible adult life.
He didn’t look back, didn’t stop. But in that fleeting moment, the sunlight caught his face, and I saw, A child, acting like a man, but never forgetting he was a child. And in his silence, I heard a thousand stories.
~Imama Tirmizi
