Chills

He didn't know how to tell time, differentiating the day from the night was all he had learnt. But that too duped him from time to time, carrying its own fair share of complexity. What was it called when he could barely open his eyes, lying limp, his body in a hundred convulsions, from as long as he could remember? A rushed construction of words later, his father picks him up, along with the tattered blanket from the night before, walking barefoot, stepping down from the pavement. The day thus begins.

Or maybe he speaks of a thousand other tales, which we've been taught to shut our eyes and ears to.

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He stands beside the car, arms outstretched, seeking just another coin, or if luck was on his side today, maybe he could begin with a little higher than a rupee.

And I, shamefacedly, try not to flinch. No, not because other people are looking at me or them, for they’re busy putting their minds into appearing busy, finally, some work for their Samsung Galaxies and Blackberries.

I argue with myself over handing over the man some money, would it help him, would it not, shouldn't I get him food instead, but what if he sells it off again, does the money even stay with them or do they have to hand it over to someone, would I only be aiding and abetting crime in this fashion, am I even carrying change?
As I’m still contemplating, searching my pockets, the driver starts the engine.

I didn’t do what was in my capacity to lessen the child’s troubles, even if it would have shushed the pain for a moment. The moment of hesitance shouldn't have existed. But it did, debouching from my heart, into the morning fog.

It was a cold morning. We felt different chills.