They irritated me. The very sight of their dirty  banians and torn knickers filled me with revulsion. Every time I stopped at a red light they would come running up and fix themselves at the car window like leeches that cling to one’s legs when wading into a river, begging for a coin. It is only the light changing to green that made them scurry  back to the pavement -the despicable creatures. Why could not they find themselves something more respectable to do?

My loathing for poverty had its roots in my youth. I was 9 then and the only child of a middle class couple who lived in a moderate flat in Hyderabad. That summer we were going on a holiday and travelling by road to Bengaluru.  The road was smooth and tree lined. A beautiful blue sky above and a gentle breeze in spite of the summer heat made the ride very enjoyable. I was listening to songs on my ipod and mom and dad were talking animatedly about the relatives we would meet in our hometown of Anantapur where we would halt for the day. We were travelling at 170 miles an hour—(-I know because I glanced at the speedometer every now and then.) which was the average speed most drivers would adopt on the highway. Suddenly, a dark brown cow appeared from nowhere and my father stepped heavily on the brake to avoid hitting the quadruped. The abrupt change of velocity made the car turn turtle and the last sounds I heard were the painful mooing of the cow and the terrified shriek of my mother. When I came to, I saw blood oozing from the car door, and I heard the siren of an approaching ambulance. I was told at the hospital where we were taken that neither had made it, but had succumbed to their injuries. I was left alone and friendless in this wide world.  Adversity is indeed the best judge of human nature.  All those relatives who had oozed love and concern seemed to have disappeared into thin air .

The munificence of some of dad’s friends got me admitted into a school with a hostel.  Life was indeed very difficult. I envied the day- scholars who were dropped and fetched from school by their parents, who brought  lunch boxes full of delicious food, who wore neatly ironed clothes and had designer school bags. I owned only a pair of pants and three shirts which I washed every other day. The food I ate was enough for sustenance. But I never wanted to ask my patrons for anything. As it is they were burdened with my fees, or so I imagined. I later came to know that it was not the milk of human kindness that prompted their generosity. It was done to assuage their conscience for having sold off our apartment and for using  the proceeds.

Somehow, I finished my school education.  An indomitable spirit and courage  helped me to find part time jobs as a sales boy in a small ‘kirana’ shop and later in various malls.  Knowing the value of higher education, I spent my wages frugally and put myself through college and a post graduate degree. My dreams of going to the US for a Masters ( which seems to be  the only ambition of every young man in India) lay shattered on account of the accident. However, my small time jobs had a great deal to do with my current personality.  One can always draw learning and inspiration from one’s surroundings and as I was a keen observer of people, I watched how they (the rich) dressed, talked and walked and picked up the savoir faire of the elite who came to the malls.  Meanwhile I acquired a degree in Management and competed for a job in a Multinational company on an equal footing with the more advantaged and sharp looking set of men. I was also selected. I took great pride in being a self- made man. The rough and tumble of life that I went through had made me not only shrewd but also canny. I trusted nobody. I was under the constant fear of someone snatching away my hard fought achievements.

I was known in the office as a ‘performer’ , someone who could be depended on to complete any task within a set deadline. They also said I was ‘reliable’ so I wasn’t unduly surprised when the boss sent for me. “Some urgent work maybe”, I thought as I entered the boss’s room albeit with trepidation when I was summoned that morning. “Why don’t you come home for tea this evening” he said. You could have knocked me down with a feather. I knew he was pleased  with my work but to be invited to his house came as a shock. I nodded, murmuring a whispered “OK Sir”

Evening saw me at Mr. Moharaj’s house , sitting uneasily on the sofa and sipping hot tea that was proffered along with freshly made pakoras. We talked about the office, the weather, and my future and I still had no clue why I had been called.  “Come Megha, sit here” he said to his daughter (she looked like him)  who had just come in from the front door.  Mr. Mohanraj came to the point after that. “ I have been looking for an alliance for my daughter......” Why was he telling me this I thought. ....”.and I think you are the most suitable person,” he added.  Another bolt from the blue. I was nonplussed. “Think about it and let me know by next week” he said as further conversation had dried up. That signalled an end to the visit and I got up to go. Megha gave me a sweet smile with her good byes. Did that signal her acquiescence to the match? Had she agreed before I was called?

Events happened in such quick succession thereafter that they seem a blur today. There was a grand wedding, a honeymoon to an exotic locale in Europe followed by receptions which tired both Megha and me. She was the gift of God to me. Beautiful, sweet tempered and patient beyond human endurance. And when she gave me the gift of a son I was over the moon. We named him Roshan.

  Roshan had all the things that money could buy from toys to clothes. I made sure that his life was never touched by the want and poverty  that I had experienced.  I even set aside a large sum of money in the bank in his name should some disaster befall us. He went to one of the best schools in the city and travelled by a chauffeur driven car. He could be the envy of the less blessed children. But Roshan never gloated about his possessions or his father’s wealth. Sometimes  he looked lost and in a world of his own and did not even hear us speaking to him. What could be bothering him?

   One day I returned from office to find him playing in the garden with the servant’s children. He had brought out his remote controlled car and was giving directions to one of them about operating it. Another fellow in a dirty shirt and much mended pair of knickers was handling his lego set while a third was setting up for battle, the guns and trucks that Roshan  was fascinated with at one point of time. I was disgusted and furious at the sight of Roshan playing with those ‘street kids’ and was striding towards them with nostrils flaring, but what held  me back was the look of pure joy on my son’s face. I had never seen such a look of unalloyed happiness even when I gifted him that expensive toy car.  I seemed justified at this point to have named him Roshan, so radiant was his face. I walked into the house quietly without a word to him. I shared the experience with my wife Megha who was glad I had said nothing to Roshan. I treasured that look in my mental RAM.

Next morning on the way to office I stopped at the red light. There they were again, the ‘street kids’ who came scrambling up to the car. One of them pushed his rag this way and that way on the windscreen, presumably cleaning it. I rolled down my window and he seemed to recognize me for he made an instinctive backward movement, remembering that I had always scowled at them. I gave him a fifty rupee note and said “Share it with your friends.” I had just enough time to note the look of utter surprise followed by a broad grin, when the light changed. As I drove to the office, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction.