His work was quick and meticulous. He was squeezing juice for his customers that lined up in front of his small table. I was curious how old the boy is. I'm still not good at guessing Indian people's age. One thing sure is he is too young for what he does. I mean I assume he would be more fit in a classroom and raise hand to the teacher and asks questions. In some way, the way he was looking at somewhere in between his work seems like poetic. I know it's ridiculous to say that is poetic. But somehow I felt his eyes kept some unmeasurable deep feeling.
I'm sure most of people believe and insist that children should study in their school and anyone who use child labor need to be punished. But my mom and dad also used work for their families. Cause the whole country was poor and they had to support the family first. There is no way they could go to school. I'm sure their parents wanted them to learn and send them collage. But I guess that was not an options for them.
I wish all children in this country have a chance to learn as I had. But can they? How much of money can he get for a day? I am not that rich either but my heart was aching much cause I have a bit better life than him. At least I was in my school when I was his age. His poverty, life and caste is not my responsibility. And he is not the only one struggling with poverty in this country. Sad but I had to get back to where I belong.
Inside of my car on the way back, there were so many kids who begged money. It's not one. Literally too many. Someone told me it's nothing compare to Bangladesh. I have to tighten my heart and soul. I still feel sorry for those kids. But the boys meticulous work and sweat were shining like a maestro. And that left me in an odd emotion. Be strong. And when it comes to right moment, I may can give a hand.