The Boy by Bipin Aurora It was a nice day. I was wearing my white shirt, my white pants. I was wearing a red tie, a clip in the middle. The people in the office even made remarks about it. “You look so handsome, Pushkar,” they said. “You look so content.” Perhaps they spoke seriously; perhaps they spoke in jest. But I took their words at face value. Did I not do the right thing? I came out of the office. I lit my cigarette. It was a sunny day—a nice blue sky, a light breeze. I took a puff from the cigarette and watched the smoke rise in the air. There was a park, the green grass of the park all around. I felt in a good mood, I decided to indulge. I took off my shoes (and why not?). How nice it was to walk on the green grass. How nice to walk in my socks! I felt tempted, I decided to take off my socks as well. I felt so light, so free. “You are a serious man, Pushkar,” my manager had once told me. “If one is serious, sometimes one cannot be free.” I remembered the words of my manager. I remembered the words as I now walked on the green grass—walked in my bare feet. There was a tree. A boy was sitting under it. He was a poor boy, he had a shoe-polish kit with him. Every few seconds someone walked by, he called after the person. “Shoe polish, sir, shoe polish!” As I walked on the grass, the boy called after me. The shoes were in my hand, not on my feet. I looked at them, noticed that they were indeed dirty. But there was so much dust in India, they would always get dirty. Still I felt in a good, a liberal, mood. I decided to give the boy some business. “Come come, sir.” I walked towards the boy. “I will do a good job, sir.” “I know you will.” And then: “These are nice shoes. You better do a good job,” I joked. I arrived at the tree. I handed the shoes to the boy. The boy took the shoes, he laid them on the grass beside him. He took one of the shoes, he laid it on top of the metal stand before him. He began to open his can of shoe polish. He looked up at me, smiled. “You work in the office, sir?” theMeadow 43
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