SPARKS

2. MONEY PLEASE MISTER!

I was eating a dosa, a savory pancake with potato filling, in a roadside restaurant, when the little boy came up to me. He smiled at me showing his crooked yellow teeth.

“Money,” begged the boy.

Before I could say a word, the waiter attending the table next to me spoke to the boy in a harsh voice. The boy turned and ran away. 

I went back to eating lunch. It was around noon. Never give money to kids, I recalled the words of the tour guide. It could be a begging racket. 

India was never a country I longed to visit. Megan dragged me here. Well, that’s not true. I followed her. It was my last effort to save the relationship. Although I tried my best, it didn’t work. I blame yoga for it. Ever since she got into it, she changed. If I ate meat, I had to brush my teeth before kissing her. If it was only that, I could’ve lived with it. She developed an over inflated spiritual ego, and in her eyes I had bad karma to deal with. So when I woke up yesterday and found her gone, it didn’t bother me much.

I decided to enjoy my last few days in this country by myself. It’s a very friendly place if you’re white. I’m not kidding or being racist. It’s just what it is. Indians idolize the whites. They even have skin lightening cremes so that brown people can be a touch fairer. I swear. I’ve seen the commercials on television. Alas, if only they knew about western obsession about tanned skin. Anyway, I’m like a celebrity in this country. Everywhere I go, people stare at me. Subbu, the shopkeeper who sells cigarettes out of a small shack, told me its because of my long blond hair. Last week, I was returning from my morning run when little school kids swarmed around me, and wanted me to sign their notebooks. I tried explaining them that I’m not an actor, but they kept yelling, ‘autograph please.’ I signed a few that day.

I carefully crossed the road. Vehicles do not stop for pedestrians here. Stop signs don’t exist, and yield signs are unheard of, but somehow people still drive. The little boy appeared in front of me with his hand out begging for money. He was waiting for me behind the vegetable vendor stall. 

“Money?”

 The boy nodded with an innocent smile on his face.

“No.”

“Mister, please. Money.”

“I am not giving you any money, but I can buy you food if you’re hungry.”

The boy gave me a blank look. I realized he couldn’t understand English much.

“Food?” I asked as I pointed to my mouth and then to my stomach. The boy immediately understood and smiled, which lit up his small black eyes, but shook his head and said, “Money please mister.” 

I ignored the boy and started walking. 

He followed me, smiled a lot, and occasionally begged.

At the corner of the street I saw a bakery, looked at the boy, and said, “Come on kid.”

I entered the shop and the boy reluctantly followed. The shopkeeper smiled at me and spoke to the boy in a harsh voice in Hindi. The boy was about to run away when I caught hold of his arm and said to the shopkeeper, “He’s with me. Tell him it’s okay to stay. He doesn’t have to leave.”

The shopkeeper was surprised, but did what I told him.

The boy laughed and held on to my hand.

I pointed at a vanilla cake on display and said, “This one?”

He looked at the cake with his mouth half open but didn’t say a word. 

I pointed at a chocolate cake and said, “This one?”