It was a time
when Seetha Chithi’s house on Ranganathan Street, T.Nagar, one of the hottest retail hubs of Chennai used to be the only place of stay for family members like us from the village.
In the evening, Lalita and I strolled along the shops, stopping to pick up books and toys for our son Murle, who, at four years old, still had difficulty speaking.
It was a time when cars were fewer. Sometimes, I would take Murle to the Mambalam railway station to watch the trains. On our way back home, I would buy us each an ice cream cone at the shop near the station.
It was a time when I disarmingly shared with the ice cream shop owner how Murle was an unexpected gift to us.
One evening, distracted by the
buzz, I didn’t realize Murle’s tiny hands slipping from my grasp.
When I did, Lalita screamed in shock. I bolted, checking the
hollow, fire hose pits, the narrow alleys between the shops where the
shop assistants smoked.
The light was edging off the mannequin heads, and the hawkers’ voices were soaked in exhaustion. Once completely dark and the 8.15 news aired on the Panagal Park public radio ended, shop-shutters would come down and Murle’s cries could lure the foxes that roamed the deserted street.
My shirt soaked in helpless sweat, I turned around past the loud cycle bells and jostling shoulders, in a final attempt towards the railway station.
My despair came to a full-stop when I saw Murle at the ice cream shop.
I pulled the glass door open, and Murle turned at the sound, babbling ‘Appa,’ and dropping the ice cream cones in his hand.
It was a time when kindness was as doable as picking up the lost four-year-old from the road and keeping him safe.
Vijayalakshmi Sridhar writes from Chennai, a coastal city in South India.
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