The Girl Who Was Different.........

Sweat beads cling to my forehead, making my hair stick. It’s so hot, as if the whole universe is on fire! I try to breathe, but even the air is damp and smells of sweat. I vainly try to get some fresh air through the two miserable eyeholes. No, not a chance. I vaguely make out the outlines of the children scampering towards me, running here and there. The children throw punches at me. Mean kids of Satan! Speaking of Satan, I think I know what it feels like to be in hell, it’s sure better than this confined space. Than this huge dummy I am wearing. At least, it’s better than the struggles I have had to endure every day just for money to buy me food. Life in a city is way harder than I anticipated. I resist the urge to shout out of frustration. Last time I did so, I didn’t get paid for a month.

With each passing day, I learn the new meaning of endurance. These birthday parties of rich lads are always miserable. But I have to endure, I have to bear. Anything to pay my examination fee and I’ll do it, whatever it takes.

“Won’t you meet the clown? Go, play with him,” says a father to a little girl. They are standing right in front of me, pointing at me!

“Yes, Yes. By all means, meet the clown, shake hands with him, click photos and when you go, be sure to land a few kicks and punches too. He will dramatically fall on the floor and make you laugh. You know how it thrills him.” I think sarcastically.

The little girl looks at me, sadness lining her face. Her little eyes filled with fear – or sympathy? I must be hallucinating or something; people like them don’t sympathise with anyone, especially not a party clown. Because they don’t know how it feels like to stand here all day, to wear this wretched thing. They don’t know how it feels like when people laugh at you, when you’re not allowed to talk, how hard it is to walk with this huge weight and how hard it is to be like this. The girl comes forward as if expecting me to say something, but I am not allowed to do so. I shake her hand, but still that expression doesn’t leave her face. I almost feel sorry for her. Why is she so sad? She moves away reluctantly, sits down on a nearby chair, watching me. It makes me go all clumsy. This is different, unusual behaviour from a supposedly spoilt girl. Laughter booms by my side when a group of adults crack up at some business joke. They look at me, while one of them comes forward.

“Hey, big man! Enjoying the show, eh?” he asks in a sing-song voice. I might as well enjoy dancing barefoot on hot charcoals than enjoy this party. But, I nod vigorously, showing my enthusiasm. “Good, good, you are a big man, you know?” “Yes, wear a six-foot heavy dummy over you and you’ll become a big man too,” I think sceptically. He goes away, but before that, he shoves me with great force. I lose my balance and tumble to the ground, while the adults laugh at me, kids joining in. I stay there, on the floor, unable to get up, as hot tears roll down my cheeks. All my fortitude shatters into tiny little pieces and along with that, ‘hope’ too. Hope to see a better day, when I’ll be standing on my own, when I don’t have to be this thing. Children could always be forgiven, but these adults?

I turn around, trying to get up, but the weight of the costume pins me to the floor. I struggle and struggle and then fatigue makes me unconscious.

A vigorous jerk brings me back to the real word, “Hey! Party’s up, get up!” the sweeper shouts at me. I remove the dummy head, the cool air does little to subdue my panic. “Where’s the manager?!” I ask, struggling to my feet. “He left half an hour ago,” he says, and pushes me, getting busy to clean the room. My heart beats frantically. Another week without food. How will I pay my rent? What about the books? Worries engulf me. I sit on the steps, staring at the cars passing by with hollow eyes. How is it fair?

These people get to see happiness every day, while we stay in misery. Then again, life was hardly fair. I watch at the car parked near the street. The same girl, she watches me with the same scrutiny and I feel vulnerable without the clown head hiding me. She actually looks at me; no… she looks into me. Grief bleaches out her face. I stand up, wobbling on my feet, hungry, exhaustion claiming me. I almost tumble when a weight crashes on to me, I look down to see the person, that girl. She hugs me tightly. And then gives me a crooked smile, one milk tooth missing. And I find my lips, forming a smile. I almost forgot how to smile, it has been ages. But now that I remember, it is glorious. My life was a mess with a truck load of worries, yet I was smiling at this little girl. How stupid of me. But it feels good to smile with someone who smiles back at you, instead of ‘laughing’ at you. She runs back to her father, waiting in the car, shock plainly written on his face. I chuckle at his expression. This girl was different. She waves goodbye, which I return.

Somewhere, there are more people like her who are different. With that girl’s smiling face etched on the back of my mind, that candle of hope flickers back to life. Hope to find more people like her and the magnificent world they could make together someday. I’ll see that dawn too!