A Conversation with Little Ramadan

                      A Conversation with Little Ramadan
                                                                                By Umer Amir Khan

In Karachi freezing nights are a rare commodity. Very rare, freezing winds from Quetta (a High Altitude City, located in the west of Pakistan) makes road empty and pacifies the hustling life of City of Lights. It was one of these nights. I was out, wrapped up in a sweater and leather jacket. It was not snowing, but we karchihites are little sensitive to cold. What dragged me out that night was my childhood love for that bitter sensuous feeling that frigid winds, blowing at Sea View, generate after striking your face. I was sitting in front of a General Store near the shrine of Sufi Saint Abdullah Shah Ghazi. A roundabout was in front of me, and a light flow of traffic was passing by. The flashing lights of cars, the dark shade of roundabout and illuminated shrine mystified the environment. I was lost in the serene view, enjoying an ice cream when a stirring shrill voice pulled me out of it.

“She gave me 50 rupees. Can u believe it? Look. Look. Here they are…”

A tiny dirty hand elicited towards my face. I first looked at the folded 50 Rupee note, resting on a dirty palm, and then towards the person to whom it belonged to. He was a little boy of about 6 to 7 years old.

“Who gave you that 50 Rupees note?” I asked him.

“That madam in the car.”, he pointed towards the General Store. I saw a middle aged women sitting in a black Corolla, parked in front of a General Store. As the car went by, he waved enthusiastically and then took a deep sigh.

“After all, this world is not such a bad place. She gave me whole 50 rupees.”

I looked at the little soul, surprised and amazed. I asked myself,

“Who is this little philosopher in shabby dirty clothes?”

He was shivering slightly, but he kept on moving to scare off bitter cold that was biting him through his plain shirt. His face was dirty, making radiance of his big innocent eyes more obvious.

“Who are you little boy?” I smiled at him. He smiled back at me.

“I am Ramadan. Look, she gave me 50 Rupees. Tonight I will eat in hotel, sitting on the table. Today, waiter will not scare me off.” His voice was vibrating with excitement.

“Ramadan! a beautiful name. What does your father do Ramadan?” I asked him.

“I don’t have any father or mother. I live alone,” he said. I found that quite odd.

“Come on Ramadan, I am big enough to know a boy of your age cannot live alone.”

“Why would I lie to you? Tonight I am rich,” he chuckled sardonically and his yellow tooth glimmered hideously upon his innocent face.

I was amazed by that answer. He was so small but so confident and bold. The young Ramadan was proving to be more and more interesting.

“I see! You live with your relatives. Why do you beg? Don’t you know it is a bad habit?”

He looked at me as I was a 6 year old and he was a grown up.

“I have no relatives. I don’t know anyone.” he replied sturdily.

“But how did you come to this place?” I asked.

He stared towards my shoes for a while, as if trying to remember something.

“I cannot remember when, but I remember a man with a black beard. He brought me to the shrine. After that, he went away. I have been living here for three years”. As he said, he folded up his arms in front of him. He was shaking slightly, but was showing immense restrain against the chilling wind of sea view.

“Here, wear my jacket for some time,” I said and started to remove my jacket.

“No baray sahab (No Sir). I don’t want your jacket if you will take it away from me. I will feel more cold then, as compared to what I am feeling now”

I was awestruck.

“Who is this boy?” The question again echoed in my mind.

It was true that I cannot give him that jacket because it belonged to my brother. But the maturity and depth of his words touched me deeply. I became silent. He was constantly moving in front of me. Sometimes, in little steps. Sometimes, half circling on toes. The 50 Rupee note was tightly held in his clenched fist. I felt so sorry for that poor innocent soul.

“Look at that road,” he pointed towards a dark road across the roundabout going besides red wall of a government school.

“You go straight and then turn left. There are few shops there. They close at eleven in night. I sleep there. Sometimes, big boys beat me up and don’t allow me to sleep. Then I sleep near the garbage dump on the other end of the road,” he smiled as he was amused by the fait accompli. There was a strange calmness on his face but his eyes were sadly restive.

Shabbily clothed Ramadan, with dirt coated smiling face was getting engraved on my canvass of brain. A morose feeling of helplessness and the unfairness of life made me feel broken-down and tired.

I looked at him. He was watching a black Mercedes passing by. There was a small boy watching from the side window of the car. Ramadan smiled heartily as he waved his hand to the passing car.

“So Ramadan, don’t you have any friends?” I asked.

“Friends, No!!! I don’t make friends with boys there. They all smoke hash or drink Samad Bond (Petroleum Sticking Glue). At night, they cut themselves with blades. Look, I don’t cut myself,” as he said he showed me his arms by pulling sleeves back.

“Of course you don’t. Only weak boys do that. I don’t find you weak Ramadan,” I smiled at him.

On those remarks, He glanced at me with tight lips and grave eyes. Then he suddenly smiled.

“After all, this world is not a bad place,” he murmured.

“What! Why did you said that?” astonished, I asked him.

He giggled. “Never mind, do you know I wake up in morning and come to Shrine. I stay here all day. I eat from the lunger(free food stalls) three times. I don’t stay with other kids. They are not good people,” as he said that a strange shade of rage flashed upon his face.

“I want to live in my house. I don’t know how it feels like to live in a house. They say I need lots of money for that.”

He unfolded the 50 Rupee note, brought it close to his eyes as he was trying to read the words printed on it. To change the topic that made my little friend furious, I asked,

“Ramadan, do you know how to read and write?”

“No. But when I will grow up I will go to a school. I will read whole newspaper daily.” he said innocently and a smile returned to his face. He was such a benignant little being.

“Can you read?” he asked.

“Yes, of course, ammm so what do you want to be when you grow up?” I asked.

“A big man. I will have a big car and a big house. I will have lots of money. Then I will build a school in which I will study. I will also let children of Shrine study there”, he spoke those words with a deep fervor. But his eyes saddened and I saw a desperate hollowness in those big eyes. It felt that as he knows that his dreams would only remain, dreams. His maturity confided his difficult life. He was already years ahead of his age.

“Saaab (Sir), I better go now. Please do remember me,” he said and then quickly left. I wanted to ask more questions, at the same time I also wanted to hide my face under a pillow and cry hard. He crossed the road running. As he faded away in the darkness of that desolated street, It felt like a vivid rose falling down in a dark well.

That was the first and last time I met that “Born Leader”. It was a short meeting, but his blithe personality, radiant charisma and lofty confidence left a lasting impression on me. He was amongst those gifted young men, who can lead this nation at the times of this turmoil. But we, as a Nation, are so lost that we let these jewels drain into the dirtiest most gutters of our society. According to a recent report on homeless people in Karachi, a majority is of young boys and girls. They are molested on daily basis by truck drivers, traders and other perverts, who find them an easy prey. This feeble forgotten lot is easily exploited and then disappeared. No one even notices their absence. These young souls just don’t exist for the rulers and elite of my land. For our leadership, they are a useless residue of society; neglected and forgotten. The only future they have is to turn themselves into criminals, murderers, drug addicts or prostitutes. Now days, a so-called Visa to heaven is available to them through blowing themselves up, which is being spread among these kids by extremist elements through brain washings and deceptive lies.

Wherever I go, I carry Little Ramadan with me. His restless image is engraved on my heart. His stirring but flimsy voice keeps on echoing in my mind. Something has to be done for thousands of these neglected Boys and Girls, who are not even considered part of the populace. These helpless souls are the future of our country. We come across these wretched beings almost every day, yet, not a slight pang of remorse strikes us. Sometimes I wonder, what has converted us into what we are?

The writer is an Engineer and he is currently doing his Masters from University of Life. He is a freelance contributor and can be contacted at [e-mail]