The Court of Small Causes: Aditya Prakash

The horns are always loud in Srinagar. The locals, if they have their way will claim that it’s a government conspiracy to drown the gunshots. Conspiracies abound too, so they may not be amiss. But anyhow, the horns are loud as hell.

Now I get a helicopter shot of a crying kid. It’s silent and helicopter like cause I’m about two feet taller than him. I’m 5’9”. He’s Indian, though he mumbles in Kashmiri. The bystanders, two autovallahs, take note. I walk on but something about his helplessness draws me back. I’ve got the time.

‘Why is he crying?’, I ask the autovalla. ‘Another kid took his money’, he replies. I shake my head and walk back. There’s no way beggars can sue each other. There’s no way anyone can bring anyone to justice when there’s nothing written down.

I got fleeced at Heemal, one of two alcohol shops in Srinagar I’m told. Chap charged me 1900 for a bottle of Black Dog that costs 1400. I was testy with him. Told him he couldn’t charge me more than the MRP. That’s the law I had said. He told me to move aside and let the other customers buy their liquor at his prices without further delay. As I walked away, having paid him a third more than I should have, I felt dissatisfied. The smooth wrought whiskey was violin on the taste buds. But it was too expensive. Too bloody expensive.

And now there is this kid who has no one to go to. I feel a little bit like the kid. We are both helpless in the larger scheme of things. I let the feeling pass, in the fleeting of a second. Sure we both got robbed, but I am stronger and surer than a 10 year old beggar. Now I feel better at his expense.

I am now at the entrance to my hotel. I turn to go in and my eyes fall on something starkly contrasting. There is another kid as dirty and about the same age as the first. He is sitting on the low parapet next to the gate. His head is bent down but I can guess a wide smile from his protruding cheekbones. He is dressed in a dirty red shirt and grey shorts. He looks lovingly at a stash of rupee coins in his cupped hands. And as the situation makes itself obvious in my head, I see his happiness transformed into beastly Golum-esque glee. Of course, this is the thief.

I ask my friend to wait and catch the boy if he tries to run. I walk back and the other boy is still aimlessly dejected.

“The boy who stole your money, was he wearing a red shirt?” I ask

“Yes!” he replies emphatically

“Come with me”, I say

We walk around the bend. And sure enough as their eyes meet, the wronged roars a war cry and the thief makes a run for it.

I look at my friend and ask why he didn’t stop him. He shrugs and tells me not to be a hero. Life goes on even as one beggar is richer than the other.

Aditya Prakash is a second year student of the MA in Development Studies programme at TISS, Mumbai.